LJBRAAY 

*,  *  C 

IRVINE 


„   3 


iBbition 
YEAST 


'THE  DATS  WILL  COME  WHEN  TE  SHALL  DESIRE  TO  BEE 

OMB  OP  THE  DATS  OP  THE  SOS  OP  MAN, 

AXD  YE  SHALL  MOT  SEX  IT." 


fvoitan 


Mention 

MACMILLAN   AND   CO. 

AND  NEW  YORK 
1893 

The  right  of  translation  and  reproduction  is  reserved. 


Pint  Edititm  frinted  1881 ;  Rtfirinttd  i8<,> 


PREFACE 

TO  THE 

FOURTH    EDITION. 

THIS  book  was  written  nearly  twelve  years  ago ;  and 
so  many  things  have  changed  since  then,  that  it  is 
hardly  fair  to  send  it  into  the  world  afresh,  without 
some  notice  of  the  improvement — if  such  there  be — 
which  has  taken  place  meanwhile  in  those  southern 
counties  of  England,  with  which  alone  this  book  deals. 
I  believe  that  things  are  improved.  Twelve  years 
more  of  the  new  Poor  Law  have  taught  the  labouring 
men  greater  self-help  and  independence ;  I  hope  that 
those  virtues  may  not  be  destroyed  in  them  once  more, 
by  the  boundless  and  indiscriminate  almsgiving  which 
has  become  the  fashion  of  the  day,  in  most  parishes 
where  there  are  resident  gentry.  If  half  the  money 
which  is  now  given  away  in  different  forms  to  the 
agricultural  poor  could  be  spent  in  making  their 
dwellings  fit  for  honest  men  to  live  in,  then  life, 


vi  PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION. 

morals,  and  poor-rates,  would  bo  saved  to  an  immense 
amount  But  as  I  do  not  see  how  to  carry  out  such 
a  plan,  I  have  no  right  to  complain  of  others  for  not 
seeing. 

Meanwhile  cottage  improvement,  and  sanitary  re- 
form, throughout  the  country  districts,  are  going  on 
at  a  fearfully  slow  rate.  Here  and  there  high-hearted 
landlords,  like  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  are  doing  tin-it 
duty  like  men;  but  in  general,  the  apathy  of  Un- 
educated classes  is  most  disgraceful 

But  the  labourers,  during  the  last  ten  years,  are 
altogether  better  off.  Free-trade  has  increased  their 
food,  without  lessening  their  employment  The  poli- 
tician  who  wishes  to  know  the  effect  on  agricultural 
life  of  that  wise  and  just  measure,  may  find  it  in  Mr. 
Grey  of  Dilston's  answers  to  the  queries  of  the  French 
Government  The  country  parson  will  not  need  to 
seek  so  far.  He  will  see  it  (if  he  be  an  observant 
man)  in  the  faces  and  figures  of  his  school-chili lnn 
He  will  see  a  rosier,  fatter,  bigger-boned  race  gro\\  inu 
up,  which  bids  fair  to  surpass  in  bulk  the  puny  and 
ill  f«l  generation  of  1815-45,  and  equal,  perhaps,  in 
thew  and  sinew,  to  the  men  who  saved  Europe  in  the 
olil  French  war. 

If  it  should  be  so  (as  God  grant  it  may),  there  is 
little  fear  but  that  the  labouring  men  of  England  will 
find  their  aristocracy  able  to  lead  them  in  the  battle- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION.  vii 

field,  and  to  develop  the  agriculture  of  the  land  at 
home,  even  better  than  did  their  grandfathers  of  the 
old  war  time. 

To  a  thoughtful  man,  no  point  of  the  social  horizon 
is  more  full  of  light,  than  the  altered  temper  of  the 
young  gentlemen.  They  have  their  faults  and  follies 
still — for  when  will  young  blood  be  other  than  hot 
blood  ?  But  when  one  finds,  more  and  more,  swear- 
ing banished  from  the  hunting-field,  foul  songs  from 
the  universities,  drunkenness  and  gambling  from  the 
barracks ;  when  one  finds  everywhere,  whether  at 
college,  in  camp,  or  by  the  coverside,  more  and  more, 
young  men  desirous  to  learn  their  duty  as  Englishmen, 
and  if  possible  to  do  it ;  when  one  hears  their  altered 
tone  toward  the  middle  classes,  and  that  word  "  snob  " 
(thanks  very  much  to  Mr.  Thackeray)  used  by  them 
in  its  true  sense,  without  regard  of  rank ;  when  one 
watches,  as  at  Aldershott,  the  care  and  kindness  of 
officers  toward  their  men ;  and  over  and  above  all 
this,  when  one  finds  in  every  profession  (in  that  of 
the  soldier  as  much  as  any)  young  men  who  are  not 
only  "in  the  world,"  but  (in  religious  phraseology) 
"of  the  world,"  living  God-fearing,  virtuous,  and  use- 
ful lives,  as  Christian  men  should  :  then  indeed  one 
looks  forward  with  hope  and  confidence  to  the  day 
when  these  men  shall  settle  down  in  life,  and  become, 
as  holders  of  the  land,  the  leaders  of  agricultural  pro- 


viii  PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION. 

gross,  and  the  guides  and  guardians  of  the  labouring 
man. 

I  am  bound  to  speak  of  the  farmer,  as  I  know  him 
in  the  South  of  England.  In  the  North  he  is  a  man 
of  altogether  higher  education  and  breeding :  but  he 
is,  even  in  the  South,  a  much  better  man  than  it  is 
the  fashion  to  believe  him.  No  doubt,  he  has  given 
heavy  cause  of  complaint  He  was  demoralised,  as 
surely,  if  not  as  deeply,  as  his  own  labourers,  by 
the  old  Poor  Law.  He  was  bewildered — to  use  the 
mildest  term — by  promises  of  Protection  from  men 
who  knew  better.  But  his  worst  fault  after  all  has 
been,  that  young  or  old,  he  has  copied  his  landlord 
too  closely,  and  acted  on  his  maxims  and  example. 
And  now  that  his  landlord  is  growing  wiser,  he  is 
growing  wiser  too.  Experience  of  the  new  Poor  Law, 
and  experience  of  Free-trade,  are  helping  him  to  show 
himself  what  ho  always  was  at  heart,  an  honest 
Englishman.  All  his  bravo  persistence  and  industry, 
his  sturdy  independence  and  self-help,  and  last,  but 
not  least,  his  strong  sense  of  justice,  and  his  vast 
goodnature,  are  coming  out  more  and  more,  and  work- 
ing better  and  better  upon  the  land  and  the  labourer ; 
while  among  his  sons  I  see  many  growing  up  lu.ivo, 
manly,  pnident  young  men,  with  a  steadily  increasing 
knowledge  of  what  is  required  of  them,  both  as  manu- 
facturcrs  of  food,  and  employers  of  human  labour. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION.  IX 

The  country  clergy,  again,  are  steadily  improving. 
I  do  not  mean  merely  in  morality — for  public  opinion 
now  demands  that  as  a  sine  qu&  non — but  in  actual 
efficiency.  Every  fresh  appointment  seems  to  me,  on 
the  whole,  a  better  one  than  the  last.  They  are  gain- 
ing more  and  more  the  love  and  respect  of  their  flocks ; 
they  are  becoming  more  and  more  centres  of  civili- 
sation and  morality  to  their  parishes ;  they  are  working, 
for  the  most  part,  very  hard,  each  in  his  own  way; 
indeed  their  great  danger  is,  that  they  should  trust 
too  much  in  that  outward  "business"  work  which 
they  -do  so  heartily ;  that  they  should  fancy  that  the 
administration  of  schools  and  charities  is  their  chief 
business,  and  literally  leave  the  Word  of  God  to  serve 
tables.  Would  that  we  clergymen  could  learn  (some 
of  us  are  learning  already)  that  influence  over  our 
people  is  not  to  be  gained  by  perpetual  interference 
in  their  private  affairs,  too  often  inquisitorial,  irritat- 
ing, and  degrading  to  both  parties,  but  by  showing 
ourselves  their  personal  friends,  of  like  passions  with 
them.  Let  a  priest  do  that.  Let  us  make  our  people 
feel  that  we  speak  to  them,  and  feel  to  them,  as  men  to 
men,  and  then  the  more  cottages  we  enter  the  better. 
If  we  go  into  our  neighbours'  houses  only  as  judges, 
inquisitors,  or  at  best  gossips,  we  are  best — as  too  many 
are — at  home  in  our  studies.  Would,  too,  that  we 
would  recollect  this — that  our  duty  is,  among  other 
b 


X  PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION. 

things,  to  preach  the  Gospel ;  and  consider  firstly 
whether  what  we  commonly  preach  be  any  Gospel 
or  good  news  at  all,  and  not  rather  the  worst  possible 
news;  and  secondly,  whether  we  preach  at  all;  whether 
our  sermons  are  not  utterly  unintelligible  (being  de- 
livered in  an  unknown  tongue),  and  also  of  a  dulness 
not  to  be  surpassed ;  and  whether,  therefore,  it  might 
not  be  worth  our  while  to  spend  a  little  time  in  study- 
ing the  English  tongue,  and  the  art  of  touching  human 
hearts  and  minds. 

But  to  return :  this  improved  tone  (if  the  truth 
must  be  told)  is  owing,  far  more  than  people  them- 
selves are  aware,  to  the  triumphs  of  those  liberal 
principles,  for  which  the  Whigs  have  fought  for  the  last 
forty  years,  and  of  that  sounder  natural  philosophy  of 
which  they  have  been  the  consistent  patrons.  England 
has  become  Whig ;  and  the  death  of  the  Whig  party 
is  the  best  proof  of  its  victory.  It  has  ceased  to  exist, 
because  it  has  done  its  work ;  because  its  principles 
are  accepted  by  its  ancient  enemies;  because  the 
political  economy  and  the  physical  science,  which 
grew  up  under  its  patronage,  are  leavening  the 
thoughts  and  acts  of  Anglican  and  of  Evangelical 
alike,  and  supplying  them  with  methods  for  carrying 
out  their  own  schemes.  Lord  Shaftesbury's  truly 
noble  speech  on  Sanitary  Reform  at  Liverpool  is  a 
striking  proof  of  the  extent  to  which  the  Evangelical 


PKEFACE  TO  THE  FOUETH  EDITION.  XI 

leaders  have  given  in  their  adherence  to  those  scien- 
tific laws,  the  original  preachers  of  which  have  been 
called  by  his  Lordship's  party  heretics  and  infidels, 
materialists  and  rationalists.  Be  it  so.  Provided 
truth  be  preached,  what  matter  who  preaches  it? 
Provided  the  leaven  of  sound  inductive  science  leaven 
the  whole  lump,  what  matter  who  sets  it  working? 
Better,  perhaps,  because  more  likely  to  produce  practi- 
cal success,  that  these  novel  truths  should  be  instilled 
into  the  minds  of  the  educated  classes  by  men  who 
share  somewhat  in  their  prejudices  and  superstitions, 
and  doled  out  to  them  in  such  measure  as  will  not 
terrify  or  disgust  them.  The  child  will  take  its 
medicine  from  the  nurse's  hand  trustfully  enough, 
when  it  would  scream  itself  into  convulsions  at  the 
sight  of  the  doctor,  and  so  do  itself  more  harm  than 
the  medicine  would  do  it  good.  The  doctor  mean- 
while (unless  he  be  one  of  Hesiod's  "  fools,  who  know 
not  how  much  more  half  is  .than  the  whole  ")  is  con- 
tent enough  to  see  any  part  of  his  prescription  got 
down,  by  any  hands  whatsoever. 

But  there  is  another  cause  for  the  improved  tone 
of  the  Landlord  class,  and  of  the  young  men  of  what 
is  commonly  called  the  aristocracy;  and  that  is,  a 
growing  moral  earnestness;  which  is  in  great  part 
owing  (that  justice  may  be  done  on  all  sides)  to  the 
Anglican  movement.  How  much  soever  Neo-Angli- 


jdi  PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION. 

canism  may  have  failed  as  an  Ecclesiastical  or  Theo- 
logical system  ;  how  much  soever  it  may  have  proved 
itself,  both  by  the  national  dislike  of  it,  and  by  the 
defection  of  all  its  master-minds,  to  be  radically  un- 
English,  it  has  at  least  awakened  hundreds,  perhaps 
thousands,  of  cultivated  men  and  women  to  ask  them- 
selves whether  God  sent  them  into  the  world  merely 
to  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  and  to  have  "  their  souls 
aared"  upon  the  Spurgeon  method,  after  they  die; 
and  has  taught  them  an  answer  to  that  question  not 
unworthy  of  English  Christians. 

The  Anglican  movement,  when  it  dies  out,  will 
leave  behind  at  least  a  legacy  of  grand  old  authors 
disinterred,  of  art,  of  music ;  of  churches  too,  schools, 
cottages,  and  charitable  institutions,  which  will  form 
so  many  centres  of  future  civilisation,  and  will 
entitle  it  to  the  respect,  if  not  to  the  allegiance,  of 
the  future  generation.  And  more  than  this ;  it  has 
•own  in  the  hearts  of  young  gentlemen  and  young 
ladies  seed  which  will  not  perish ;  which,  though  it 
may  develop  into  forms  little  expected  by  those  who 
sowed  it,  will  develop  at  least  into  a  virtue  more 
stately  and  reverent,  more  chivalrous  and  self-sacri- 
ficing, more  genial  and  human,  than  can  be  learnt 
from  that  religion  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  which 
reigned  triumphant — for  a  year  and  a  day — in  the 
popular  pulpits. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION.  xiii 

I  have  said,  that  Neo-Anglicanism  has  proved  a 
failure,  as  seventeenth-century  Anglicanism  did.  The 
causes  of  that  failure  this  book  has  tried  to  point 
out :  and  not  one  word  which  is  spoken  of  it  therein, 
but  has  been  drawn  from  personal  and  too-intimate 
experience.  But  now — peace  to  its  ashes.  Is  it  so 
great  a  sin,  to  have  been  dazzled  by  the  splendour  of 
an  impossible  ideal  ?  Is  it  so  great  a  sin,  to  have  had 
courage  and  conduct  enough  to  attempt  the  enforcing 
of  that  ideal,  in  the  face  of  the  prejudices  of  a  whole 
nation  1  And  if  that  ideal  was  too  narrow  for  the 
English  nation,  and  for  the  modern  needs  of  mankind, 
is  that  either  so  great  a  sin  ?  Are  other  extant  ideals, 
then,  so  very  comprehensive?  Does  Mr.  Spurgeon, 
then,  take  so  much  broader  or  nobler  views  of  the 
capacities  and  destinies  of  his  race,  than  that  great 
genius,  John  Henry  Newman  1  If  the  world  cannot 
answer  that  question  now,  it  will  answer  it  promptly 
enough  in  another  five-and-twenty  years.  And  mean- 
while let  not  the  party  and  the  system  which  has 
conquered  boast  itself  too  loudly.  Let  it  take  warn- 
ing by  the  Whigs ;  and  suspect  (as  many  a  looker-on 
more  than  suspects)  that  its  triumph  may  be,  as  with 
the  Whigs,  its  ruin ;  and  that,  having  done  the  work 
for  which  it  was  sent  into  the  world,  there  may  only 
remain  for  it,  to  decay  and  die. 

And  die  it  surely  will,  if  (as  seems  too  probable) 


xiv  PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION. 

there  succeeds  to  this  late  thirty  years  of  peace  a 
thirty  years  of  storm. 

For  it  has  lost  all  hold  upon  the  young,  the  active, 
the  daring.  It  has  sunk  into  a  compromise  between 
originally  opposite  dogmas.  It  has  become  a  religion 
for  Jacob  the  smooth  man  :  adapted  to  the  maxims 
of  the  market,  and  leaving  him  full  liberty  to  supplant 
his  brother  by  all  methods  lawful  in  that  market  No 
longer  can  it  embrace  and  explain  all  known  facts  of 
God  and  man,  in  heaven  and  earth,  and  satisfy  utterly 
such  minds  and  hearts  as  those  of  Cromwell's  Ironsides, 
or  the  Scotch  Covenanters,  or  even  of  a  Newton  and  a 
Colonel  Gardiner.  Let  it  make  the  most  of  its  Hedley 
Vicars  and  its  Havelock,  and  sound  its  own  trumpet 
as  loudly  as  it  can,  in  sounding  theirs  :  for  they  are 
the  last  specimens  of  heroism  which  it  is  likely  to 
beget — if  indeed  it  did  in  any  true  sense  beget  them, 
and  if  their  gallantry  was  really  owing  to  their  creed, 
and  not  to  the  simple  fact  of  their  being — like  others 
— English  gentlemen.  Well  may  Jacob's  chaplains 
cackle  in  delighted  surprise  over  their  noble  memories, 
like  geese  who  have  unwittingly  hatched  a  swan  ! 

But  on  Esau  in  general : — on  poor  rough  Esau,  who 
sails  Jacob's  ships,  digs  Jacob's  mines,  founds  Jacob's 
colonies,  pours  out  his  blood  for  him  in  those  wars 
•which  Jacob  himself  has  stirred  up — while  his  sleek 
brother  sits  at  home  in  his  counting-house,  enjoying 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION.  XV 

at  once  "the  means  of  grace"  and  the  produce  of 
Esau's  labour — on  him  Jacob's  chaplains  have  less  and 
less  influence ;  for  him  they  have  less  and  less  good 
news.  He  is  afraid  of  them,  and  they  of  him ;  the 
two  do  not  comprehend  one  another,  sympathise  with 
one  another;  they  do  not  even  understand  one  another's 
speech.  The  same  social  and  moral  gulf  has  opened 
between  them,  as  parted  the  cultivated  and  wealthy 
Pharisee  of  Jerusalem  from  the  rough  fishers  of  the 
Galilaean  Lake :  and  yet  the  Galilsean  fishers  (if  we  are 
to  trust  Josephus  and  the  Gospels)  were  trusty,  gener- 
ous, affectionate — and  it  was  not  from  among  the 
Pharisees,  it  is  said,  that  the  Apostles  were  chosen. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Esau  has  a  birthright ;  and  this 
book,  like  all  books  which  I  have  ever  written,  is 
written  to  tell  him  so;  and,  I  trust,  has  not  been 
written  in  vain.  But  it  is  not  this  book,  or  any  man's 
book,  or  any  man  at  all,  who  can  tell  Esau  the  whole 
truth  about  himself,  his  powers,  his  duty,  and  his  God. 
Woman  must  do  it,  and  not  man.  His  mother,  his 
sister,  the  maid  whom  he  may  love ;  and  failing  all 
these  (as  they  often  will  fail  him,  in  the  wild  wander- 
ing life  which  he  must  h've),  those  human  angels  of 
whom  it  is  written — "  The  barren  hath  many  more 
children  than  she  who  has  an  husband."  And  such 
will  not  be  wanting.  As  long  as  England  can  produce 
at  once  two  such  women  as  Florence  Nightingale  and 


xvi  PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION. 

Catherine  Marsh,  there  is  good  hope  that  Esau  will 
not  be  defrauded  of  his  birthright ;  and  that  by  the 
time  that  Jacob  comes  crouching  to  him,  to  defend 
him  against  the  enemies  who  are  near  at  hand,  Esau, 
instead  of  borrowing  Jacob's  religion,  may  be  able  to 
teach  Jacob  his ;  and  the  two  brothers  face  together 
the  superstition  and  anarchy  of  Europe,  in  the  strength 
of  a  lofty  and  enlightened  Christianity,  which  shall  be 
thoroughly  human,  and  therefore  thoroughly  divine. 

C.  K 

February  nth,  185ft 


PREFACE 

TO  THE 

FIKST    EDITION. 

THIS  little  tale  was  written  between  two  and  three 
years  ago,  in  the  hope  that  it  might  help  to  call  the 
attention  of  wiser  and  better  men  than  I  am,  to  the 
questions  which  are  now  agitating  the  minds  of  the 
rising  generation,  and  to  the  absolute  necessity  of 
solving  them  at  once  and  earnestly,  unless  we  would 
see  the  faith  of  our  forefathers  crumble  away  beneath 
the  combined  influence  of  new  truths  which  are 
fancied  to  be  incompatible  with  it,  and  new  mistakes 
as  to  its  real  essence.  That  this  can  be  done  I  be- 
lieve and  know :  if  I  had  not  believed  it,  I  would 
never  have  put  pen  to  paper  on  the  subject. 

I  believe  that  the  ancient  Creed,  the  Eternal 
Gospel,  will  stand,  and  conquer,  and  prove  its  might 
in  this  age,  as  it  has  in  every  other  for  eighteen 
hundred  years,  by  claiming,  and  subduing,  and  organ- 
ising those  young  anarchic  forces,  which  now,  un- 
conscious of  their  parentage,  rebel  against  Him  to 
whom  they  owe  their  being. 


xviii  PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 

But  for  the  time  being,  the  young  men  and  women 
of  our  day  are  fast  parting  from  their  parents  and 
each  other ;  the  more  thoughtful  are  wandering  either 
towards  Rome,  towards  sheer  materialism,  or  towards 
an  unchristian  and  unphilosophic  spiritualism.  K]>i 
curism  which,  hi  my  eyes,  is  the  worst  evil  spirit  of 
the  three,  precisely  because  it  looks  at  first  sight 
most  like  an  angel  of  light  The  mass,  again,  are 
fancying  that  they  are  still  adhering  to  the  old  creeds, 
the  old  church,  to  the  honoured  patriarchs  of  English 
Protestantism.  I  wish  I  could  agree  with  them  in 
their  belief  about  themselves.  To  me  they  seem — 
with  a  small  sprinkling  of  those  noble  and  cheering 
exceptions  to  popular  error  which  are  to  be  found  in 
every  age  of  Christ's  church — to  be  losing  most  fear- 
fully and  rapidly  the  living  spirit  of  Christianity,  and 
to  be,  for  that  very  reason,  clinging  all  the  more 
convulsively — and  who  can  blame  them? — to  the 
outward  letter  of  it^  whether  High  Church  or  Evan- 
gelical ;  unconscious,  all  the  while,  that  they  are  sinking 
out  of  real  living  belief,  into  that  dead  self -deceiving 
belief-in-believing,  which  has  been  always  heretofore, 
and  is  becoming  in  England  now,  the  parent  of  the 
most  blind,  dishonest,  and  pitiless  bigotry. 

In  the  following  pages  I  have  attempted  to  show 
what  some  at  least  of  the  young  in  these  days  are 
really  thinking  and  feeling.  I  know  well  that  my 
sketch  is  inadequate  and  partial :  I  have  every  reason 
to  believe,  from  the  criticisms  which  I  have  received 
since  its  first  publication,  that  it  is,  as  far  as  it  goes, 


PKEFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION.  xix 

correct.  I  put  it  as  a  problem.  It  would  be  the 
height  of  arrogance  in  me  to  do  more  than  indicate 
the  direction  in  which  I  think  a  solution  may  be 
found.  I  fear  that  my  elder  readers  may  complain 
that  I  have  no  right  to  start  doubts  without  answering 
them.  I  can  only  answer, — Would  that  I  had  started 
them !  would  that  I  was  not  seeing  them  daily  around 
me,  under  some  form  or  other,  in  just  the  very  hearts 
for  whom  one  would  most  wish  the  peace  and  strength 
of  a  fixed  and  healthy  faith.  To  the  young,  this 
book  can  do  no  harm ;  for  it  will  put  into  their  minds 
little  but  what  is  there  already.  To  the  elder,  it  may 
do  good ;  for  it  may  teach  some  of  them,  as  I  earnestly 
hope,  something  of  the  real,  but  too  often  utterly  un- 
suspected, state  of  their  own  children's  minds ;  some- 
thing of  the  reasons  of  that  calamitous  estrangement 
between  themselves  and  those  who  will  succeed  them, 
which  is  often  too  painful  and  oppressive  to  be  con- 
fessed to  their  own  hearts  !  Whatever  amount  of 
obloquy  this  book  may  bring  upon  me,  I  shall  think 
that  a  light  price  to  pay,  if  by  it  I  shall  have  helped, 
even  in  a  single  case,  to  "turn  the  hearts  of  the 
parents  to  the  children,  and  the  hearts  of  the  children 
to  the  parents,  before  the  great  and  terrible  day  of 
the  Lord  come," — as  come  it  surely  will,  if  we  persist 
much  longer  in  substituting  denunciation  for  sym- 
pathy, instruction  for  education,  and  Pharisaism  for 
the  Good  News  of  the  Kingdom  of  God. 

1851. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING  ...  1 

II.  SPRING  YEARNINGS 20 

III.  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE      ...  40 

IV.  AN  "  INGLORIOUS  MILTON  "      ....  75 
V.  A  SHAM  is  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING     ,        .        .  86 

VI.  VOGUE  LA  GALORE 98 

VII.  THE  DRIVE  HOME,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT        .  121 

VIII.  WHITHER? 133 

IX.  HARRY  VERNEY  HEARS  HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIRED    .  153 

X.   "MURDER  WILL  OUT,"  AND  LOVE  TOO       .        .  167 

XI.  THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST        .        .        .        .197 

XII.  THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND     .        .        .        .212 

XTII.  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL 227 

XIV.  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ? 265 

XV.  DEUS  E  MACHIN! 288 

XVI.  ONCE  IN  A  WAY        . ,       .        .        .        .        .  320 

XVII.  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  .        .  334 

EPILOGUE 363 


YEAST 


YEAST. 

a  Problem. 
CHAPTER  I. 

THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF  FOX-HUNTING. 

As  this  my  story  will  probably  run  counter  to  more 
than  one  fashion  of  the  day,  literary  and  other,  it  is 
prudent  to  bow  to  those  fashions  wherever  I  honestly 
can ;  and  therefore  to  begin  with  a  scrap  of  descrip- 
tion. 

The  edge  of  a  great  fox-cover ;  a  flat  wilderness  of 
low  leafless  oaks  fortified  by  a  long,  dreary,  thorn- 
capped  clay  ditch,  with  sour  red  Avater  oozing  out  at 
every  yard;  a  broken  gate  leading  into  a  straight 
wood-ride,  ragged  with  dead  grasses  and  black  with 
fallen  leaves,  the  centre  mashed  into  a  quagmire  by 
innumerable  horse -hoofs;  some  forty  red  coats  and 
some  four  black;  a  sprinkling  of  young  farmers,  re- 
splendent in  gold  buttons  and  green ;  a  pair  of  sleek 
drab  stable-keepers,  showing  off  horses  for  sale ;  the 
surgeon  of  the  union,  in  Mackintosh  and  antigropelos ; 


2  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-IirNTlNC. 

two  holiday  school-l>oys  with  trousers  strapped  down 
to  bursting  point,  like  a  penny  steamer's  safety-valve  ; 
a  midshipman,  the  only  merry  one  in  the  field,  hump- 
ing about  on  a  fretting,  sweating  hack,  with  its  nose 
a  foot  above  its  ears;  and  Lancelot  Smith,  who  thru 
kept  two  good  horses,  and  "  rode  forward  "  as  a  fine 
young  fellow  of  three  -ami-twenty  who  can  afford  it, 
and  "has  nothing  else  to  do,"  has  a  very  good  il-lit 
to  ride. 

But  what  is  a  description,  without  a  sketch  <>f  the 
weather? — In  these  Pantheist  days  especially,  when  a 
hero  or  heroine's  moral  state  must  entirely  depend  on 
the  barometer,  and  authors  talk  as  if  Christians  \\t •!•<• 
cabbages,  and  a  man's  soul  as  well  as  his  lungs  might 
1x5  saved  by  sea-breezes  and  sunshine  ;  or  his  character 
developed  by  wearing  guauo  in  his  shoes,  and  training 
himself  against  a  south  wall — we  must  have  a  weather 
description,  though,  as  I  shall  presently  show,  one  in  flat 
contradiction  of  the  popular  theory.  Luckily  for  our 
information,  Lancelot  was  very  much  given  to  watrh 
lx)th  the  weather  and  himself,  and  had  indeed,  while 
in  his  teens,  combined  the  two  in  a  sort  of  a  soul 
almanack  on  the  principles  just  mentioned — somewhat 
in  this  style : — 

"Monday,  21x/. — Wind  S.W.,  bright  sun,  mercury 
at  30A  inches.  Felt  my  heart  expanded  towards  the 
universe.  Organs  of  veneration  and  )>encvolence 
pleasingly  excited  ;  and  gave  a  shilling  to  a  tramp. 
An  inexpressible  joy  hounded  through  every  vein, 
and  the  soft  air  breathed  purity  and  self  -aniti. •<• 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING.  3 

through  my  soul.  As  I  watched  the  beetles,  those 
children  of  the  sun,  who,  as  divine  Shelley  says,  '  laden 
with  light  and  odour,  pass  over  the  gleam  of  the  living 
grass,'  I  gained  an  Eden-glimpse  of  the  pleasures  of 
virtue. 

"  N.B.  Found  the  tramp  drunk  in  a  ditch.  I  could 
not  have  degraded  myself  on  such  a  day — ah  !  how 
could  he  1 

"  Tuesday,  2'2d. — Barometer  rapidly  falling.  Heavy 
clouds  in  the  south-east.  My  heart  sank  into  gloomy 
forebodings.  Read  Manfred,  and  doubted  whether  I 
should  live  long.  The  laden  weight  of  destiny  seemed 
to  crush  down  my  aching  forehead,  till  the  thunder- 
storm burst,  and  peace  was  restored  to  my  troubled 
soul." 

This  was  very  bad ;  but  to  do  justice  to  Lancelot, 
he  had  grown  out  of  it  at  the  time  when  my  story 
begins.  He  was  now  in  the  fifth  act  of  his  "  Werter- 
ean"  stage;  that  sentimental  measles,  which  all  clever 
men  must  catch  once  in  their  lives,  and  which,  gener-j 
ally,  like  the  physical  measles,  if  taken  early,  settles 
their  constitution  for  good  or  evil ;  if  taken  late,  goes 
far  towards  killing  them.  Lancelot  had  found  Byron 
and  Shelley  pall  on  his  taste  and  commenced  devouring 
Bulwer  and  worshipping  Ernest  Maltravers.  He  had 
left  Bulwer  for  old  ballads  and  romances,  and  Mr. 
Carlyle's  reviews ;  was  next  alternately  chivalry-mad ; 
and  Germany-mad ;  was  now  reading  hard  at  physical 
science ;  and  on  the  whole,  trying  to  become  a  great 
man,  without  any  very  clear  notion  of  what  a  great  man 


4  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-IirNTlNC. 

^    ought  to  be.     Krai  education  he  never  had  had. 

up  at  home  under  his  father,  a  rich  merchant,  he  had 
gone  to  college  with  a  large  stock  of  general  informa- 
tion, and  a  particular  mania  for  dried  plants,  fossils, 
\  butterflies,  and  sketching,  and  some  such  creed  as 
this : — 

That  he  was  very  clever. 

That  he  ought  to  make  his  fortune. 

That  a  great  many  things  were  very  pleasant — 
beautiful  things  among  the  rest 

That  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  be  "  superior,"  gentle- 
man-like, generous,  and  courageous. 

That  a  man  ought  to  be  religious. 

And  left  college  with  a  good  smattering  of  classics 
and  mathematics,"  picked  up  in  the  intervals  of  boat- 
racing  and  hunting,  and  much  the  same  creed  as  he 
brought  with  him,  except  in  regard  to  the  last  art  it •]<-. 
The  scenery-and-natural-history  mania  was  now  s<»mr 
what  at  a  discount  He  had  discovered  a  new  natural 
object,  including  in  itself  all — more  than  all — yet 
found  beauties  and  wonders — woman  ! 

Draw,  draw  the  veil  and  weep,  guardian  angel  1  if 
Midi  there  be.  What  was  to  be  expected?  Pleasant 
things  were  pleasant — there  was  no  doubt  of  that, 
whatever  else  might  be  doubtful.  He  had  read  Byron 
by  stealth ;  he  had  been  flogged  into  reading  Ovid 
and  Tibullus ;  and  commanded  by  his  private  tutor  to 
read  Martial  and  Juvenal  "for  the  improvement  of  his 
style."  All  conversation  on  the  subject  of  love  had 
been  prudishly  avoided,  as  usual,  by  his  parents  and 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING.  5 

teacher.  The  parts  of  the  Bible  which  spoke  of  it 
had  been  always  kept  out  of  his  sight.  Love  had  been 
to  him,  practically,  ground  tabooed  and  "  carnal." 
What  was  to  be  expected  1  Just  what  happened — if 
woman's  beauty  had  nothing  holy  in  it,  why  should 
his  fondness  for  it  1  Just  what  happens  every  day — 
that  he  had  to  sow  his  wild  oats  for  himself,  and  eat 
the  fruit  thereof,  and  the  dirt  thereof  also. 

0  fathers !  fathers !  and  you,  clergymen,  who 
monopolise  education  !  either  tell  boys  the  truth  about 
love,  or  do  not  put  into  their  hands,  without  note  or 
comment,  the  foul  devil's  lies  about  it,  which  make  up 
the  mass  of  the  Latin  poets — and  then  go,  fresh  from 
teaching  Juvenal  and  Ovid,  to  declaim  at  Exeter  Hall 
against  poor  Peter  Dens's  well-meaning  prurience ! 
Had  we  not  better  take  the  beam  out  of  our  own  eye 
before  we  meddle  with  the  mote  in  the  Jesuit's  ? 

But  where  is  my  description  of  the  weather  all  this 
time  ? 


I  cannot,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  give  any  very  cheerful 
account  of  the  weather  that  day.  But  what  matter  1 
Are  Englishmen  hedge -gnats,  who  only  take  their 
sport  when  the  sun  shines  1  '  Is  it  not,  on  the  con- 
trary, symbolical  of  our  national  character,  that  almost 
all  our  field  amusements  are  wintry  ones  1  Our  fowl- 
ing, ourTmnting,  our  punt-shooting  (pastime  for  Hymir 
himself  and  the  frost  giants) — our  golf  and  skating, — 
our  very  cricket,  and  boat-racing,  and  jack  and  gray- 
ling fishing,  carried  on  till  we  are  fairly  frozen  out. 
We  are  a  stern  people,  and  winter  suits  us.  Nature 


6 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTIXO. 


then  retires  modestly  into  the  back-ground,  and  spares 
us  the  obtrusive  glitter  of  summer,  leaving  us  to  think 
and  work  ;  and  therefore  it  happens  that  in  England, 
it  may  be  taken  as  a  general  rule,  that  whenever  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  is  in-doors,  we  are  out  and  busy, 
and  on  the  whole,  the  worse  the  day,  the  better  the 
deed. 

The  weather^  thajudfty^  the  first  day  Lancelot  ever 


saw  his  beloved,  was  truly  national.     A  silent,  dim, 
distanceless,  steaming,  rotting  day  in  March. 


lastbrown  oak-leaf  which  had  stood  out  the  winter's 
frost,  spun  and  quivered  plump  down,  and  then  lay  ; 
as  if  ashamed  to  have  broken  for  a  moment  the 
ghastly  stillness,  like  an  awkward  guest  at  a  great 
dumb  dinner-party.  A  cold  suck  of  wind  just  proved 
its  existence,  by  toothaches  on  the  north  side  of  all 
faces.  The  spiders  having  been  weather-bewitched 
the  night  before,  had  unanimously  agreed  to  cover 
every  brake  'and  brier  with  gossamer -cradles,  and 
never  a  fly  to  be  caught  in  them  ;  like  Manchester 
cotton -spinners  madly  glutting  the  markets  in  the 
taoih  of  "no  demand."  The  steam  crawled  out  of 
the  dank  turf,  and  recked  off  the  flanks  and  nostrils 
of  the  shivering  horses,  and  clung  with  clammy  pu\vs 
to  frosted  hate  and  dripping  boughs.  A^goulless.  sky- 
Jess,  catarrhal  day,  as  if  that  bustling  dowager,  old 
mother  Earth— what  with  match-making  in  spring, 
and  files  champ&res  in  summer,  and  dinner-giving  in 
autumn — was  fairly  worn  out,  and  put  to  bed  with  the 
influenza,  under  wet  blankets  and  the  cold-water  cure. 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING.  7 

There  sat  Lancelot  by  the  cover-side,  his  knees 
aching  with  cold  and  wet,  thanking  his  stars  that  he 
was  not  one  of  the  whippers-in  who  were  lashing 
about  in  the  dripping  cover,  laying  up  for  themselves, 
in  catering  for  the  amusement  of  their  betters,  a 
probable  old  age  of  bed-ridden  torture,  in  the  form 
of  rheumatic  gout.  Not  that  he  was  atall  hajjpy^ 
indeed,  he  had  no  feason~~tu  be  ""S<rf"for,  first,  the 
hounds  would  not  find ;  next,  he  had  left  half-finished 
at  home  a  review  article  on  the  Silurian  System,  which 
he  had  solemnly  promised  an  abject  and  beseeching 
editor  to  send  to  post  that  night;  next,  he  was  on 
the  windward  side  of  the  cover,  and  dare  not  light  a 
cigar ;  and  lastly,  his  mucous  membrane  in  general 
was  not  in  the  happiest  condition,  seeing  that  he  had 
been  dining  the  evening  before  with  Mr.  Vauriejj-pf 
Rottenpalings,  a  young  gentleman  of  a  convivial  and 
melodious  turn  of  mind,  who  sang — and  played  also — 
as  singing  men  are  wont — in  more  senses  than  one, 
and  had  "ladies  and  gentlemen"  down  from  town  to 
stay  with  him ;  and  they  sang  and  played  too ;  and 
so  somehow  between  vingt-un  and  champagne-punch, 
Lancelot  had  not  arrived  at  home  till  seven  o'clock 
that  morning,  and  was  in  a  fit  state  to  appreciate  the 
feelings  of  our  grandfathers,  when,  after  the  third 
bottle  of  port,  they  used  to  put  the  black  silk  tights 
into  their  pockets,  slip  on  the  leathers  and  boots,  and 
ride  the  crop-tailed  hack  thirty  miles  on  a  winter's 
night,  to  meet  the  hounds  in  the  next  county  by  ten 
in  the  morning.  They  are  "gone  down  to  Hades, 


8  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING. 

even  many  stalwart  souls  of  heroes,"  with  John  Wai  do 
of  Squerries  at  their  head — the  fathers  of  the  im-n 
who  conquered  at  Waterloo ;  and  we  their  degenerate 
grandsons  are  left  instead,  with  puny  anus,  and 
polished  leather  boots,  and  a  considerable  taint  of 
hereditary  disease,  to  sit  in  club-houses,  and  celebrate 
the  progress  of  the  species. 

Whether  Lancelot  or  his  horse,  under  these  depress- 
ing circumstances,  fell  asleep;  or  whether  thoughts 
pertaining  to  such  a  life,  and  its  fitness  for  a  clever  and 
ardent  young  fellow  in  the  nineteenth  century,  became 
gradually  too  painful,  and  had  to  be  peremptorily 
shaken  off,  this  deponent  sayeth  not;  but  certainly, 
after  five-and-thirty  minutes  of  idleness  and  shivering, 
Lancelot  opened  his  eyes  with  a  sudden  start,  and 
struck  spurs  into  his  hunter  without  due  cause  shown  ; 
whereat  Shiver-the-timbers,  who  was  no  Griselda  in 
temper — (Lancelot  had  bought  him  out  of  the  Pytchley 
for  half  his  value,  as  unrideably  vicious,  when  he  had 
killed  a  groom,  and  fallen  backwards  on  a  rough-rider, 
the  first  season  after  he  came  up  from  Horncastle) 
— responded  by  a  furious  kick  or  two,  threw  his  head 
up,  put  his  foot  into  a  drain,  and  sprawled  down  all 
but  on  his  nose,  pitching  Lancelot  unawares  slium<- 
fully  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle.  A  certain  fatality, 
by  the  by,  had  lately  attended  all  Lancelot's  efforts 
to  shine ;  he  never  bought  a  new  coat  without  tearing 
it  mysteriously  next  day,  or  tried  to  make  a  j<>kc  with- 
out bursting  out  coughing  in  the  middle  .  .  .  and  now 
the  whole  field  were  looking  on  at  his  mishap:  IT- 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING.  9 

tween  disgust  and  the  start  he  turned  almost  sick,  and 
felt  the  blood  rush  into  his  cheeks  and  forehead  as  he 
heard  a  shout  of  coarse  jovial  laughter  burst  out  close 
to  him,  and  the  old  master  of  the  hounds,  Squire 
Lavington,  roared  aloud — 

"A  pretty  sportsman  you  are,  Mr.  Smith,  to  fall 
asleep  by  the  cover-side  and  let  your  horse  down — 
and  your  pockets,  too !  What's  that  book  on  the 
ground  1  Sapping  and  studying  still  1  I  let  nobody 
come  out  with  my  hounds  with  their  pocket  full  of 
learning.  Hand  it  up  here,  Tom;  we'll  see  what  it 
is.  French,  as  I  am  no  scholar !  Translate  for  us, 
Colonel  Bracebridge !" 

And,  amid  shouts  of  laughter,  the  gay  Guardsman 
read  out, — 

"  St.  Francis  de  Sales  :  Introduction  to  a  Devout 
Life." 

Poor  Lancelot !  Wishing  himself  fathoms  under- 
ground, ashamed  of  his  book,  still  more  ashamed  of 
himself  for  his  shame,  he  had  to  sit  there  ten  physical 
seconds,  or  spiritual  years,  while  the  colonel  solemnly 
returned  him  the  book,  complimenting  him  on  the 
proofs  of  its  purifying  influence  which  he  had  given 
the  night  before,  in  helping  to  throw  the  turnpike- 
gate  into  the  river. 

But  "  all  things  do  end  "  and  so  did  this ;  and  the 
silence  of  the  hounds  also ;  and  a  faint  but  knoAving 
whimper  drove  St.  Francis  out  of  all  heads,  and 
Lancelot  began  to  stalk  slowly  with  a  dozen  horse- 
men up  the  wood-ride,  to  a  fitful  accompaniment  of 


10  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTIXr.. 

wandering  hound-music,  where  the  choristers  were  as 
invisible  as  nightingales  among  the  thick  cover.  And 
hark !  just  as  the  book  was  returned  to  his  pocket, 
the  sweet  hubbub  suddenly  crashed  out  into  one 
jubilant  shriek,  and  then  swept  away  fainter  and 
fainter  among  the  trees.  The  walk  became  a  trot — 
the  trot  a  canter.  Then  a  faint  melancholy  shout  at 
a  distance,  answered  by  a  "Stole  away!"  from  the 
fields ;  a  doleful  "  toot !"  of  the  horn ;  the  dull  thunder 
of  many  horsehoofs  rolling  along  the  farther  woodside. 
Then  red  coats,  flashing  like  sparks  of  fire  across  the 
grey  gap  of  mist  at  the  ride's-mouth,  then  a  whipper- 
in,  bringing  up  a  belated  hound,  burst  into  the  path 
way,  smashing  and  plunging,  with  shut  eyes,  through 
ash-saplings  and  hassock  -  grass ;  then  a  fat  farmer, 
sedulously  pounding  through  the  mud,  Avas  overtaken 
and  bespattered  in  spite  of  all  his  struggles ; — until  the 
line  streamed  out  into  the  wide  rushy  pasture,  start- 
ling up  pewits  and  curlews,  as  horsemen  poured  in  from 
every  side,  and  cunning  old  fanners  rode  <>H'  at  inex- 
plicable angles  to  some  well-known  haunts  of  pug: 
and  right  ahead,  chiming  and  jangling  sweet  madness, 
the  dappled  pack  glanced  and  wavered  through  the  \ 
veil  of  soft  grey  mist 

••  What's  the  use  of  this  hurry?"  growled  Lancelot, 
"They  will  all  IMJ  back  again.  I  never  have  the  hick 
to  see  a  run." 

Hut  no  ;  on  and  on — down  the  wind  and  down  the  / 
vale;  and  the  canter  became  a  gallop,  and  the  gallop 
a  long  straining   stride  :  and   a    hundred    horse  hoofs 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING. 


11 


crackled  like  flame  among  the  stubbles,  and  thundered 
fetlock-deep  along  the  heavy  meadows;  and  every 
fence  thinned  the  cavalcade,  till  the  madness  began 
to  stir  all  bloods,  and  with  grim  earnest  silent  faces, 
the  initiated  few  settled  themselves  to  their  work, 
and  with  the  colonel  and  Lancelot  at  their  head, 
"  took  their  pleasure  sadly,  after  the  manner  of  their 
nation,"  as  old  Froissart  has  it. 

• 

"  Thorough  bush,  through  brier, 
Thorough  park,  through  pale  ;" 

till  the  rolling  grass-lands  spread  out  into  flat  black 
open  fallows,  crossed  with  grassy  baulks,  and  here  and 
there  a  long  melancholy  line  of  tall  elms,  while  before 
them  the  high  chalk  ranges  gleamed  above  the  mist 
like  a  vast  wall  of  emerald  enamelled  with  snow,  and 
the  winding  river  glittering  at  their  feet 

"A  polite  fox!"  observed  the  colonel.  "He's 
leading  the  squire  straight  home  to  Whitford,  just  in 
time  for  dinner." 


They  were  in  the  last  meadow,  with  the  streambefore 
them.  A  line  of  struggling  heads  in  the  swollen  and\ 
milky  current  showed  the  hounds'  opinion  of  Reynard's! 
course.  The  sportsmen  galloped  off  towards  the  nearest 
bridge.  Bracebridge  looked  back  at  Lancelot,  who 
had  been  keeping  by  his  side  in  sulky  rivalry,  follow- 
ing him  successfully  through  all  manner  of  desperate 
places,  and  more  and  more  angry  with  himself  and 
the  guiltless  colonel,  because  he  only  followed,  while 


12  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-IIUXTIXG. 

the  colonel's  quicker  ami  unembarrassed  wit,  which 
lived  wholly  in  the  present  moment,  saw  long  before 
Lancelot,  "  how  to  cut  out  his  work,"  in  every 
field. 

"  I  sha'n't  go  round,"  quietly  observed  the  colonel. 

"  Do  you  fancy  I  shall  1"  growled  Lancelot,  who 
took  for  granted — poor  thin-skinned  soul !  that  the 
words  were  meant  as  a  hit  at  himself. 

"You're^  a  brace  of  geese,"  politely  observed  the 
old  squire  ;  "  and  you'll  find  it  out  in  rheumatic  fever. 
There — 'one  fool  makes  many!'  You'll  kill  Smith 
before  you're  done,  colonel ! "  and  the  old  man  wheeled 
away  up  the  meadow,  as  Bracebridge  shouted  after 
him, — 

"Oh,  he'll  make  a  fine  rider — in  time  !" 

"In  time!"  Lancelot  could  have  knocked  the 
unsuspecting  colonel  down  for  the  word.  It  just 
expressed  the  contrast,  which  had  fretted  him  ever 
since  he  began  to  hunt  with  the  Whitford  Priors 
hounds.  The  colonel's  long  practice  and  consummate 
skill  in  all  he  took  in  hand, — his  experience  of  all 
society,  from  the  prairie  Indian  to  Crockford's,  from 
the  prize-ring  to  the  continental  courts, — his  varied 
and  ready  store  of  information  and  anecdote, — the 
harmony  and  completeness  of  the  man, — his  jx>naiat 
cncy  with  his  own  small  ideal,  and  his  consequent 
.  ••'•:'•  ni  iii|N'i  im  \\\  i-vcn  «  In  !••  .ni'l  in  ever]  Him-  i.. 
the  huge  awkward  Titan-cub,  who,  though  immeasur- 
ably licyond  Bracebridge  in  intellect  and  heart,  was 
.-till  in  a  state  of  convulsive  dyspepsia,  "swallowing 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING.  13 

formulae,"  and  daily  well-nigh  choked ;  diseased 
throughout  with  that  morbid  self-consciousness  and 
lust  of  praise,  for  Avhich  God  prepares,  with  his  elect, 
a  bitter  cure.  Alas !  poor  Lancelot !  an  unlicked 
bear,  "vnth  all  his  sorrows  before  him  !"- 

"  Come  along, "quoth  Bracebridge,  between  snatches 
of  a  tune,  his  coolness  maddening  Lancelot.  "Old 
Lavington  will  find  us  dry  clothes,  a  bottle  of  port, 
and  a  brace  of  charming  daughters,  at  the  Priory. 
In  with  you,  little  Mustang  of  the  prairie  !  Neck  or 
nothing ! " — 

And  in  an  instant  the  small  wiry  American,  and 
the  huge  Horncastle-bred  hunter,  were  wallowing  and 
staggering  in  th^yeast^stream,  till  they  floated  into 
a  deep  reach,  and  swam  steadily  down  to  a  low  place 
in  the  bank.  They  crossed  the  stream,  passed  the 
Priory  Shrubberies,  leapt  the  gate  into  the  park,  and 
then  on  and  upward,  called  by  the  unseen  Ariel's 
music  before  them. — Up,  into  the  hills ;  past  white 
crumbling  chalk-pits,  fringed  with  feathered  juniper 
and  tottering  ashes,  their  floors  strewed  with  knolls 
of  fallen  soil  and  vegetation,  like  wooded  islets  in  a 
sea  of  milk. — Up,  between  steep  ridges  of  tuft  crested 
with  black  fir-woods  and  silver  beech,  and  here  and 
there  a  huge  yew  standing  out  alone,  the  advanced 
sentry  of  the  forest,  with  its  luscious  fretwork  of 
green  velvet,  like  a  mountain  of  Gothic  spires  and 
pinnacles,  all  glittering  and  steaming  as  the  sun  drank 
up  the  dew-drops.  The  lark  sprang  upwarcTTnto 
song,  and  called  merrily  to  the  new-opened  sunbeams, 


14  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING. 

while  the  wreaths  and  flakes  of  mist  lingered  reluct- 
antly about  the  hollows,  and  clung  with  dewy  fingers 
to  every  knoll  and  belt  of  pine. — Up  into  the  labyrin- 
thine bosom  of  the  hills, — but  who  can  describe  them] 
Is  not  all  nature  indescribable  1  every  leaf  infinite 
and  transcendental  ?  How  much  more  those  mighty 
downs,  with  their  enormous  sheets  of  spotless  turf, 
where  the  dizzy  eye  loses  all  standard  of  size  and 
distance  before  the  awful  simplicity,  the  delicate  vast- 
ness,  of  those  grand  curves  and  swells,  soft  as  the 
outlines  of  a  Greek  Venus,  as  if  the  great  goddess- 
mother  Hertha  had  laid  herself  down  among  the  hills 
to  sleep,  her  Titanjjmbs  wrapt  in  a  thin  veil  of  silvery 
green. 

Up,  into  a  vast  amphitheatre  of  sward,  whose  walls 
banked  out  the  narrow  sky  above.  And  here,  in  the 
focus  of  the  huge  ring,  an  object  appeared  which 
stirred  strange  melancholy  in  Lancelot,  —  a  little 
chapel,  ivy-grown.  girded  with  a  few  yews,  and  elders, 
and  grassy  graves.  A  climbing  rose  over  the  porch, 
and  iron  railings  round  the  churchyard,  t<>l<l  of  human 
care ;  and  from  the  graveyard  itself  burst  up  one  of 
those  noble  springs  known  as  winterbournes  in  the. 
chalk  ranges,  which,  awakened  in  autumn  from  the 
al»\sscs  to  which  it  had  -iiniiik  iluiin-j  t  lir  Miniinri'- 
drought,  was  hurrying  down  upon  its  six  months 
course,  a  broad  sheet  of  oily  silver,  over  a  temporary 
channel  of  smooth  greensward. 

The  hounds  had  checked  in  the  woods  behind  : 
now  they  poured  down  the  hill-side,  so  close  together 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING.  15 

"  that  you  might  have  covered  them  with  a  sheet," 
straight  for  the  little  chapel. 

A  saddened  tone  of  feeling  spread  itself  through 
Lancelot's  heart.  There  were  the  everlasting  hills 
around,  even  as  they  had  grown  and  grown  for  count- 
less ages,  beneath  the  still  depths  of  the  primeval 
chalk  ocean,  in  the  milky  youth  of  this  great  English 
land.  And  herewas__he,  the-Jjnser.t.  of  a  .day,  fox- 
hunting upon  them !  He  felt  ashamed,  and  more 
ashamed  when  the  inner  voice  whispered — ''Fox-hunt- 
ing is  not  the  shame — thou  art  the  shame.  If  thou  art 
the  insect  of  a  day,  it  is  thy  sin  that  thou  art  one."  •/ 

And  his  sadness,  foolish  as  it  may  seem,  grew  as 
he  watched  a/brown  speck  fleet  rapidly  up  the  opposite 
hill,  and  heard  a  gay  view -halloo  burst  from  the 
colonel  at  his  side.  The  chase  lost  its  charm  for  him 
the  moment  the  game  was  seen.  Then  vanished  that 
T)rystpTjf>ng  fl  plight  of  pursuing  an  invisible  object, 
which  givois  to  hunting  and  fishing  their  unutterable 
anoTalmost  spiritual  charm ;  wTTich  made  Shakespeare 
ajiightly^poacher ;  Davy  and  Chantrey_the  patriarchs 
of  fly-fishmg7  by  which  the  twelve-foot  rod  is  trans- 


^gured  into  an  enchanter's  wand,  potent  over  the 
unseen  wonders  of  the  water-world,  to  "  call  up  spirits 
from  the  vasty  deep,"  which  will  really  "  come  if  you 
do  call  for  them" — at  least  if  the  conjuration  be 
orthodox — and  they  there.  That  spell  was  broken 
by  the  sight  of  poor  wearied  pug,  his  once  gracefully- 
floating  brush  all  draggled  and  drooping,  as  he  toiled 
up  the  sheep -paths  towards  the  open  down  above. 


16  1'IllLOSOl'HY  OF  FOX-IU'MIKC. 

But  Lancelot's  sadness  reached  its  crisis,  as  he  met 
the  hounds  just  outside  the  churchyard.  Another 
moment — they  had  leaped  the  rails  ;  and  there  they 
swept  round  under  the  grey  wall,  leaping  and  yelling 
like  Berserk  fiends  among  the  frowning  tombstones, 
over  the  cradles  of  the  quiet  dead. 

Lancelot  shuddered — the  thing  was  not  wrong — 
"  it  was  no  one's  fault," — but  there  was  a  ghastly  dis- 
cord  in  it  Peace  and  strife,  time  and  eternity — the 
mad  noTsy  flesh,  and  the  silent  immortal  spirit — the 
frivolous  game  of  life's  outside  show,  and  the  terril.le 
earnest  of  its  inward  abysses,  jarred  together  without 
and  within  him.  He  pulled  his  horse  up  violently, 
and  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  place,  gazing  at  he  knew 
not  what 

The  hounds  caught  sight  of  the  fox,  burst  into  one 
frantic  shriek  of  joy — and  then  a  sudden  and  ghastly 
stillness,  as,  mute  and  breathless,  they  toiled  up  the 
hill-side,  training  on  their  victim  at  every  stride.  Tim 
patter  of  the  horsehoofsaml  the  rattle  of  rolling  Hints 
died  away  above.  Lancelot  looked  up,  startled  at  the 
silence ;  laughed  aloud,  he  knew  not  why,  and  sat,  re- 
gardless of  his  pawing  and  straining  horse,  still  star-' 
ing  at  the  chapel  and  the  graves. 

On  a  sudden  the  chapel-door  opened,  and  a  figure, 
timidly  yet  loftily  stepped  out  without  observing  him, 
anil,  suddenly  turning  round,  met  him  full,  face  to 
face,  and  stood  fixed  with  surprise  as  completely  as 
Lancelot  himself. 

That  face  and  figure,  and  the  spirit  whi<  h 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING.  17 

through  them,  entered  his  heart  at  once,  never  again 
to  leave  it.  Her  features  were  aquiline  and  grand, 
without  a  shade  of  harshness ;  her  eyes  shone  out  like 
twin  lakes  of  still  azure,  beneath  a  broad  marble  cliff 
of  polished  forehead ;  her  rich  chestnut  hair  rippled 
downward  round  the  towering  neck.  With  her  perfect 
masque  and  queenly  figure,  and  earnest,  upward  gaze, 
she  might  have  been  the  very  model  from  which 
Eaphael  conceived  his  glorious  St.  Catherine — the 
ideal  of  the  highest  womanly  genius,  softened  into 
self-forgetf ulness  by  girlish  devotion.  She  was  simply, 
almost  coarsely  dressed ;  but  a  glance  told  him  that 
she  was  a  lady^Jby.  the  courtesy  of  man  as  wglljjjgjg, 
the  will  of  God. 

They  gazed  one  moment  more  at  each  other — but 
what  is  time  to  spirits?  With  them,  as  with  their 
Father,  "  one  day  is  as  a  thousand  years."  But  that 
eye-wedlock  was  cut  short  the  next  instant  by  the 
decided  interference  of  the  horse,  who,  thoroughly 
disgusted  at  his  master's  whole  conduct,  gave  a  signi- 
ficant shake  of  his  head,  and  shamming  frightened 
(as  both  women  and  horses  will  do  when  only  cross), 
commenced  a  war- dance,  which  drove  Argemone 
Lavington  into  the  porch,  and  gave  the  bewildered 
Lancelot  an  excuse  for  dashing  madly  up  the  hill  after 
his  companions. 

"  What  a  horrible  ugly  face ! "  said  Argemone  to 
herself,  "but  so  clever,  and  so  unhappy  !" 

Blest  pity !  true  mother  of  that  graceless  scamp, 
young  Love,  who  is  ashamed  of  his  real  pedigree,  and 
C  v. 


18  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING. 

swears  to  this  day  that  he  is  the  child  of  Venus ! — 
the  coxcomb ! 

j  [Here,  for  the  sake  of  the  reader,  we  omit,  or  rather 
)  postpone  a  long  dissertation  on  the  famous  Erototheo- 
)  gonic  chorus  of  Aristophanes's  Birds,  with  illustrations 
/  taken  from  all  earth  and  heaven,  from  the  Vedas  and 
^Proclus  to  Jacob  Boehmen  and  Saint  Theresa.] 

"  The  dichotomy  of  Lancelot's  personality,"  as  the 
Germans  would  call  it,  returned  as  he  dashedjon.  His 
understanding  was  trying  to  ride,  while  his  spirit  was 
left  Ixjhind  with  Argemona  Hence  loose  reins  and  a 
looser  seat  HeToITed  about  like  a  tipsy  man,  holding 
on,  in  fact,  far  more  by  his  spurs  than  by  his  knees, 
to  the  utter  infuriation  of  Shiver-the-timl>er8,  who 
kicked  and  snorted  over  the  down  like  one  of  Mephis- 
topheles's  Demon-steeds.  They  had  mounted  the  hill 
— the  deer  fled  before  them  in  terror — they  neared 
the  park  palings.  In  the  road  beyond  them  the 
hounds  were  just  killing  their  fox,  struggling  and 
gfowling~Tn~  fierce  groups  for  the  red  gobbcte  of  fur,  a 
panting,  steaming  ring  of  horses  round  them.  Half-a- 
dozen  voices  hailed  him  as  he  came  up. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  "He'll  tumble  off!" 
"  He's  had  a  fall ! "  "  No,  he  hasn't ! "  "  'Ware  hounds, 
man  alive  1"  "He'll  break  his  neck  !" 

"  He  has  broken  it,  at  lastj^  shouted  the  colonel, 
as  Shivcr-thc-timt)crgjnishcd  _at_thc__  high  pales,  out  of 
broatfi,  and  blind  with  rage.  Lancelot  saw  and  heard 
nothing  till  he  waft  fcWlkuhod  from  his  dream  by  the 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING.  19 

long  heave  of  the  huge  brute's  shoulder,  and  the  mad- 
dening sensation  of  sweeping  through  the  air  over  the 
fence.  He  started,  checked  the  curb,  the  horse  threw 
up  his  head,  fulfilling  his  name  by  driving  his  knees 
like  a  battering-ram  against  the  pales — the  top-bar 
bent  like  a  withe,  flew  out  into  a  hundred  splinters, 
and  man  and  horse  rolled  over  headlong  into  the  hard 
flint-road. 

For  one  long  sickening  second  Lancelot  watched 
the  blue  sky  between  his  own  knees.  Then  a  crash 
as  if  a  shell  had  burst  in  his  face — a  horrible  grind 
— a  sheet  of  flame — and  the  blackness  of  night.  Did 
you  ever  feel  it,  reader  1 

\Vnen  ne  awoke,  he  found  himself  lying  in  bed, 
with  Squire  Lavington  sitting  by  him.  There  was 
real  sorrow  in  the  old  man's  face.  "  Come  to  himself ! " 
and  a  great  joyful  oath  rolled  out.  "The  boldest 
rider  of  them  all !  I  wouldn't  have  lost  him  for  a 
dozen  ready-made  spick  and  span  Colonel  Brace- 
bridges  ! " 

"Quite  right,  squire!"  answered  a  laughing  voice 
from  behind  the  curtain.  "Smith  has  a  clear  two 
thousand  a  year,  and  I  live  by  my  wits  ! " 


CHAPTER  IL 

SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

I  HEARD  a  story  the  other  day  of  our  most  earnest 
and  genial  humourist,  who  is  just  now  proving  him- 
self also  our  most  earnest  and  genial  novelist  "I 
like  your  novel  exceedingly,"  said  a  lady;  "the  char- 
acters are  so  natural — all  but  the  baronet,  and  he 
surely  is  overdrawn :  it  is  impossible  to  find  such 
coarseness  in  his  rank  of  life  ! " 

The  artist  laughed.  "  And  that  character,"  said  he, 
"  is  almost  the  only  exact  portrait  in  the  whole  book." 

So  it  is.  People  do  not  see  the  strange  things 
which  pass  them  every  day.  "  The  romance  of  real 
life "  is  only  one  to  the  romantic  spirit  And  then 
tney  set  up  for  critics,  instead  of  pupils;  as  if  the 
artist's  business  was  not  just  to  see  what  they  cannot 
see — to  open  their  eyes  to  the  harmonies  and  the  dis- 
cords, the  miracles  and  the  absurdities,  which  seem  to 
.them  one  uniform  grey  fog  of  commonplaces. 

Then  let  the  reader  believe,  that  whatsoever  is 
commonplace  in  my  story  is  my  own  invent  inn. 
Whatsoever  may  seem  extravagant  or  startling  is 
most  likely  to  be  historic  fact,  else  I  should  not  have 


SPEING  YEAEN1NGS.  21 

dared  to  write  it  down,  finding  God's  actual  dealings  t 
here  much  too  wonderful  to  dare  to  invent  many  fresh  1 
ones  for  myself. 

Lancelot,  who  had  had  a  severe  concussion  of  the 
brain  and  a  broken  leg,  kept  his  bed  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  his  room  for  a  few  more.  Colonel  Bracebridge 
installed  himself  at  the  Priory,  and  nursed  him  with 
indefatigable  good-humour  and  few  thanks.  He 
brought  Lancelot  his  breakfast  before  hunting,  de- 
scribed the  run  to  him  when  he  returned,  read  him 
to  sleep,  told  him  stories  of  grizzly  bear  and  buffalo- 
hunts,  made  him  laugh  in  spite  of  himself  at  extem- 
pore comic  medleys,  kept  his  tables  covered  with 
flowers  from  the  conservatory,  warmed  his  chocolate, 
and  even  his  bed.  Nothing  came  amiss  to  him,  and 
he  to  nothing.  Lancelot  longed  at  first  every  hour 
to  be  rid  of  him,  and  eyed  him  about  the  room  as  a 
bulldog  does  the  monkey  who  rides  him.  In  his 
dreams  he  was  Sinbad  the  Sailor,  and  Bracebridge 
the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea ;  but  he  could  not  hold  out 
against  the  colonel's  merry  bustling  kindliness,  and 
the  almost  womanish  tenderness  of  his  nursing.  The 
ice  thawed  rapidly ;  and  one  evening  it  split  up  alto- 
gether, when  Bracebridge,  who  was  sitting  drawing 
by  Lancelot's  sofa,  instead  of  amusing  himself  with 
the  ladies  below,  suddenly  threw  his  pencil  into  the 
fire,  and  broke  out,  a  propos  de  rien — 

"  What  a  strange  pair  we  are,  Smith  !  I  think  you 
just  the  best  fellow  I  ever  met,  and  you  hate  me  like 
poison — you  can't  deny  it." 


22  SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

There  was  something  in  the  colonel's  tone  so  utterly 
different  from  his  usual  courtly  and  measured  speech, 
that  Lancelot  was  taken  completely  by  surprise,  and 
stammered  out, — 

"  I — I — I — no — no.  I  know  I  am  very  foolish — 
ungrateful.  But  I  do  hate  you,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden 
impulse,  "and  I'll  tell  you  why." 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  quoth  the  colonel :  "  I  like 
that  Now  we  shall  see  our  way  with  each  other,  at 
least" 

" Because,"  said  Lancelot,  slowly,  "because  you  are 
cleverer  than  I,  readier  than  I,  superior  to  me  in  every 
point" 

The  colonel  laughed,  not  quite  merrily.  Lancelot 
went  on,  holding  down  his  shaggy  brows. 

"I  am  a  brute  and  an  ass! — And  yet  I  do  not 
like  to  tell  you  so.  For  if  I  am  an  ass,  what  are 
you?" 

"Heyday!" 

"  Look  here. — I  am  wasting  my  time  and  brains 
on  ribaldry,  but  I  am  worth  nothing  better — at  least, 
I  think  so  at  times ;  but  you,  who  can  do  anything 
you  put  your  hand  to,  what  business  have  you,  in  the 
devil's  name,  to  l)e  throwing  yourself  away  on  gim- 
cracks  and  fox-hunting  foolery  ?  Heavens  !  If  I  had 
your  talents,  I'd  be — I'd  make  a  name  for  myself 
Ixsfore  I  died,  if  I  died  to  make  it" 

The  colonel  griped  his  hand  hard,  rose,  and  looked 
out  of  the  window  for  a  few  minutes.  There  was  a 
dead,  brooding  silence,  till  he  turned  to  Lancelot, — 


SPRING  YEARNINGS.  23 

"Mr.  Smith,  I  thank  you  for  your  honesty,  but 
good  advice  may  come  too  late.  I  am  no  saint,  and 
God  only  knows  how  much  less  of  one  I  may  become ; 
but  mark  my  words, — if  you  are  ever  tempted  by 
passion,  and  vanity,  and  fine  ladies,  to  form  liaisons, 
as  the  Jezebels  call  them,  snares,  and  nets,  and  laby- 
rinths of  blind  ditches,  to  keep  you  down  through  life, 
stumbling  and  grovelling,  hating  yourself  and  hating 
the  chain  to  which  you  cling — in  that  hour  pray — 
pray  as  if  the  devil  had  you  by  the  throat, — to 
Almighty  God,  to  help  you  out  of  that  cursed  slough  ! 
There  is  nothing  else  for  it ! — pray,  I  tell  you !" 

There  was  a  terrible  earnestness  about  the  guards- 
man's face  which  could  not  be  mistaken.  Lancelot 
looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  dropped  his 
eyes  ashamed,  as  if  he  had  intruded  on  the  speaker's 
confidence  by  witnessing  his  emotion. 

In  a  moment  the  colonel  had  returned  to  his  smile 
and  his  polish. 

"And  now,  my  dear  invalid,  I  must  beg  your 
pardon  for  sermonising.  What  do  you  say  to  a  game 
of  tcartd  ?  We  must  play  for  love,  or  we  shall  excite 
ourselves,  and  scandalise  Mrs.  Lavington's  piety." 
And  the  colonel  pulled  a  pack  of  cards  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  seeing  that  Lancelot  was  too  thoughtful 
for  play,  commenced  all  manner  of  juggler's  tricks, 
and  chuckled  over  them  like  any  schoolboy. 

"Happy  man!"  thought  Lancelot,  "to  have  the 
strength  of  will  which  can  thrust  its  thoughts  away 
once  and  for  all." 


24  SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

No,  Lancelot !  more  happy  arc  they  whom  God 
will  not  allow  to  thrust  their  thoughts  from  them  till 
the  bitter  draught  has  done  its  work. 

From  that  day,  however,  there  was  a  cordial  under- 
standing between  the  two.  They  never  alluded  to  the 
subject;  but  they  had  known  the  bottom  of  each 
other's  heart  Lancelot's  sick  room  was  now  pleasant 
enough,  and  he  drank  in  daily  his  new  friend's  per- 
petual stream  of  anecdote,  till  March  and  hunting 
were  past,  and  April  was  half  over.  The  old  squire 
came  up  after  dinner  regularly  (during  March  he  had 
hunted  every  day,  and  slept  every  evening) ;  and  the 
trio  chatted  along  merrily  enough,  by  the  help  of 
whist  and  backgammon,  upon  the  surface  of  this  little 
island  of  life, — which  is,  like  Sinbad's,  after  all  only 
the  back  of  a  floating  whale,  ready  to  dive  at  any 
moment — And  then? — 

But  what  was  ^Argemone  doing  all   tliis   time  ? 
Argemone  was  busy  iiTfier^boucloir  (too  often  a  tnie 
boudoir  to  her)  among  books  and  statuettes,  and  drii-1 
flowers,  fancying  herself,  and  not  unfairly,  very  in- 
tellectual.    She  had  four  new  manias  every  year ;  her  [ 
last  winter's  one  had  been  that  bottle-and-squirt  mania,  \ 
miscalled  chemistry  ;  her  spring  madness  was  for  tin1    I 
Greek  drama.     She  had  devoured  Schlegel's  lectures,    \ 
andtfionght  them  divine ;  and  now  shcVa.s  hard  at 
work  on  Sophocles,  with  a  little  help  from  translations,    / 
and  thought  snb  understood  him  every  word.     Then  / 
she  was  somewhat  High-Church  in  her  notions,  and  I 
used  to  go  up  every  Wednesday  and  Friday  to  the 


SPUING  YEARNINGS.  25 

chapel  in  the  hills,  where  Lancelot  had  met  her,  for 
an  hour's  mystic  devotion,  set  off  by  a  littlfi-fflaceful 
asceticism.  AlfforLancelot,  she  never  thought  of  him 
but  as  an  empty-headed  fox-hunter  who  had  met  with 
his  deserts ;  and  the  brilliant  accounts  which  the  all- 
smoothing  colonel  gave  at  dinner  of  Lancelot's  physical 
well-doing  and  agreeable  conversation  only  made  her 
set  him  down  the  sooner  as  a  twin  clever-do-nothing 
to  the  despised  Bracebridge,  whom  she  hated  for 
keeping  her  father  in  a  roar  of  laughter. 

But  her  sister,  little  Honoria,  had  all  the  while 
been  busy  messing  and  cooking  with  her  own  hands 
for  the  invalid,  and  almost  fell  in  love  with  the 
colonel  for  his  watchful  kindness.  And  here  a  word 
about  Honoria,  to  whom  Nature,  according  to  her 
wont  with  sisters,  had  given  almost  everything  which 
Argemone  wanted,  and  denied  almost  everything 
which  Argemone  had,  except  beauty.  And  even  in 
that,  the  many-sided  mother  had  made  her  a  perfect 
contrast  to  her  sister, — tiny  and  luscious,  dark-eyed 
and  dark -haired;  as  full  of  wild  simple  passion  as 
an  Italian,  thinking  little,  except  where  she  felt  much 
—which  was,  indeed,  everywhere ;  for  she  lived 
in  a  perpetual  April -shower  of  exaggerated  sym- 
pathy^foT^n^u^rin^j^heth^rin"^oyjlg3t>r  in  liftg 
and  daily  gave  the  lie  to  that  shallow  old  calumny, 
that  "fictitious  sorrows  harden  the  heart  to  real 
ones." 

Argemone  was  almost  angry  with  her  sometimes, 
when  she  trotted  whole  days  about  the  village  from 


26  SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

school  to  sickroom  :  perhaps  conscience  hinted  to  her 
that  her  duty,  too,  lay  rather  there  than  among  her 
luxurious  day-dreams.  But,  alas  !  though  she  would 
have  indignantly  repelled  the  accusation  of  selfishness^ 
yet  in  self  and  for  self  alone  she  lived ;  and  while  she 
had  force  of  will  for  any  so-called  "  self-denial,"  and 
would  fast  herself  cross  and  stupefied,  and  quite  enjoy 
kneeling  thinly  clad  and  barefoot  on  the  fixv/ini: 
chapel-floor  on  a  winter's  morning,  yet  her  fastidious 
delicacy  revolted  at  sitting,  like  Honoria,  beside  the 
bed  of  the  ploughman's  consumptive  daughter,  in  a 
reeking,  stifling,  lean-to  garret,  in  which  had  slept  the 
night  before,  the  father,  mother,  and  two  grown-up 
boys,  not  to  mention  a  new-married  couple,  the  sick 
girl,  and,  alas  !  her  baby.  And  of  such  bedchambers 
there  were  too  many  in  Whitford  Priors. 

The  first  evening  that  Lancelot  came  downstairs, 
Honoria  clapped  her  hands  outright  for  joy  as  he 
entered,  and  ran  up  and  down  for  ten  minutes,  fetch- 
ing and  carrying  endless  unnecessary  cushions  and 
footstools  ;  while  Argemone  greeted  him  with  a  cold 
distant  bow,  and  a  fine-lady  drawl  of  carefully  common- 
place congratulations.  Her  heart  smote  her  though, 
as  she  saw  the  wan  face  and  the  wild,  melancholy, 
moon -struck  eyes  once  more  glaring  through  and 
through  her;  she  found  a  comfort  in  thinking  his 
stare  impertinent,  drew  herself  up,  and  turned  away  ; 
once,  indeed,  she  could  not  help  listening,  as  Lancelot 
thanked  Mrs.  Lavington  for  all  the  pious  and  edifying 
books  with  which  the  good  lady  had  kept  his  room 


SPUING  YEAENINGS.  27 

rather  than  his  brain  furnished  for  the  last  six  weeks ; 
he  was  going  to  say  more,  but  he  saw  the  colonel's 
quaint  foxy  eye  peering  at  him,  remembered  St. 
Francis  de  Sales,  and  held  his  tongue. 

But,  as  her  destiny  was,  Argemone  found  herself, 
in  the  course  of  the  evening,  alone  with  Lancelot,  at 
the  open  window.  It  was  a  still,  hot,  heavy  night, 
after  long  easterly  drought ;  sheet-lightning  glimmered 
on  the  far  horizon  over  the  dark  woodlands;  the 
coming  shower  had  sent  forward  as  his  herald  a 
whispering  draught  of  fragrant  air. 

"What  a  delicious  shiver  is  creeping  over  those 
limes ! "  said  Lancelot,  half  to  himself. 

The  expression  struck  Argemone  :  it  was  the  right 
one,  and  itseemeoto  open  vistas  of  feeling  and  obser- 
yation  in  the_gp^Vftr  wTijgh  she  had  not  suspected. 
There  was  a  rich  melancholy  in  the  voice ; — she  turned 
to  look  at  him. 

"Ay,"  he  went  on;  " and  the  same  heat  which  crisps 
those  thirsty  leaves  must  breed  the  thunder-shower 
which  cools  them1?  But  so  it  is  throughout  the 
universe  :  every  yearning  proves  the  existence  of  an 
object  meant  to  satisfy  it ;  the  same  law  creates  both 
the  giver  and  the  receiver,  the  longing  and  its 
home." 

"  If  one  could  but  know  sometimes  what  it  is  for 
which  one  is  longing  !"  said  Argemone,  without  know- 
ing that  she  was  speaking  from  her  inmost  heart :  but 
thus  does  the  soul  involuntarily  lay  bare  its  most  un- 
spoken depths  in  the  presence  of  its  yet  unknown 


28  SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

mate,  and  then  shudders  at  its  own  abandon  as  it  first 
tries  on  the  wedding-garment  of  Paradise. 

Lancelot  was  not  yet  past  the  era  at  which  young 
geniuses  are  apt  to  "  talk  book  "  at  little. 

"For  what?"  he  answered,  flashing  up  according 
to  his  fashion.  "  To  be ; — to  be  great ;  to  have  done 
one  mighty  work  before  we  die,  and  live,  unloved  or 
loved,  upon  the  lips  of  men.  For  this  all  long  who 
are  not  mere  apes  and  wall-flies." 

"So  longed  the  founders  of  Babel,"  answered 
Argemone,  carelessly,  to  this  tirade.  She  had  risen  a 
strange  fish,  the  cunning  beauty,  and  now  she  was 
trying  her  fancy  flies  over  him  one  by  one. 

"And  were  they  so  far  wrong?"  answered  he. 
"  From  the  Babel  society  sprung  our  architecture,  our 
astronomy,  politics,  and  colonisation.  No  doubt  the 
old  Hebrew  sheiks  thought  them  impious  enough,  for 
daring  to  build  brick  walls  instead  of  keeping  to  the 
good  old-fashioned  tents,  and  gathering  themselves 
into  a  nation  instead  of  remaining  a  mere  family 
horde ;  and  gave  their  own  account  of  the  myth,  just 
as  the  antediluvian  savages  gave  theirs  of  that  strange 
Eden  scene,  by  the  common  interpretation  of  which 
the  devil  is  made  the  first  inventor  of  modesty.  Men 
are  all  conservatives  j  everything  new  is  impious,  till 
we  get  accustomed  to  it ;  and  if  it  fails,  the  mob 
piously  discover  a  divine  vengeance  in  the  mischance, 
from  Bal>el  to  Catholic  Emancipation." 

Lancelot  had  stuttered  horribly  during  th<>  latter 
part  of  this  most  heterodox  outburst,  for  In-  had  Ixjgun 


SPUING  YEARNINGS.  29 

to  think  about  himself,  and  try  to  say  a  fine  thing, 
suspecting  all  the  while  that  it  might  not  be  tme. 
But  Argemone  did  not  remark  the  stammering :  the 
new  thj>irjitg^tgrtlpd  and  painH  hgr ;  but  there  was 
a  daring  grace_abouJLtheTn.  She  tried,  as  womenjwJUj' 
to  answer  him  with  arguments,  and  failed,  as  women 
will  fail.  She  was  accustomed  to  lay  down  the  law  a  ] 


la  Madame  de  Stael,  to  savants  and  non-savants  and  be 
heard  with  reverence,  as  a  woman  should  be.  But 
poor  truth-seeking  Lancelot  did  not  see  what  sexJiad 
to  do  with  logic ;  he  flew  at  her  as  if_she^ad_beeji_a 
very  barrister,  and  huntecTher  mercilessly  up  and  down 


'through  all  sorts  of  charming  sophisms,  as  she  begged 
the  question,  and  shifted  her  ground,  as  thoroughly 
right  in  her  conclusion  as  she  was  wrong  in  her  reason- 
ing, till  she  grew  quite  confused  and  pettish. — And 
then  Lancelot  suddenly  shrank  into  his  shell,  claws 
and  all,  like  an  affrighted  soldier -crab,  hung  down 
his  head,  and  stammered  out  some  incoherences,— 
"  N-n-not  accustomed  to  talk  to  women — ladies,  I 
mean.  F-forgot  myself. — Pray  forgive  me !"  And  he 
looked  up,  and  her  eyes,  half-amused,  met  his,  and 
she  saw  that  they  were  filled  with  tears. 

"What  have  I  to  forgive  ?"  she  said,  more  gently, 
wondering  on  what  sort  of  strange  sportsman  she  had 
fallen.  "  You_treat  me  like  an  equal ;  you  will  deign 
to  argue  with  me.  But  men  in  general — oh,  they 
hide  their  contempt  for  us,  if  not  their  own  ignorance, 
under  that  mask  of  chivalrous  deference  ! "  and  then 
in  the  nasal  fine  ladies'  key,  which  was  her  shell,  as 


30  SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

bitter  bnisquerle  was  his,  she  added,  with  an  Amazon 
queen's  toss  of  the  head, — "  You  must  come  and  see 
us  often.  We  shall  suit  each  other,  I  see,  better  than 
most  whom  we  see  here." 

Aj?ncer  and  a  blush  passed  together  over 
uglinessJ 

»v     - — - — 

"  What,  better  than  the  glib  Colonel  Bracebridge 
yonder  1" 

"  Oh,  he  is  witty  enough,  but  he  lives  on  the  surface 
of  everything !  He  is  altogether  shallow  and  Mast. 
His  good-nature  is  the  fruit  of  want  of  feeling ;  between 
his  gracefulness  and  his  sneering  persiflage  he  is  a 
perfect  Mephistopheles- Apollo." 

What  a  snare  a  decently-good  nickname  is  !  Out 
it  must  come,  though  it  carry  a  lie  on  its  back.  But 
the  truth  was,  Argemone  thought  herself  infinitely 
superior  to  the  colonel,  for  which  simple  reason  she 
could  not  in  the  least  understand  him. 

[By  the  bye,  how  subtly  Mr.  Tennyson  has  em- 
bodied all  this  in  The  Princess.  How  he  shows  us  the 
woman,  when  she  takes  her  stand  on  the  false  mascu- 
line ground  of  intellect,  working  out  her  own  moral 
punishment,  by  destroying  in  herself  the  tender  heart 
of  flesh,  which  is  either  woman's  highest  blessing  or 
her  bitterest  curse ;  how  she  loses  all  feminine  sensi- 
bility to  the  under-current  of  feeling  in  us  poor  world- 
worn,  case-hardened  men,  and  falls  from  pride  to 
sternness,  from  sternness  to  sheer  inhumanity.  I 
should  have  honoured  myself  by  pleading  guilty  to 
stealing  much  of  Argemone's  character  from  The 


SPRING  YEARNINGS.  31 

Princess,  had  not  the  idea  been  conceived,  and  fairly 
worked  out,  long  before  the  appearance  of  that  noble 
poem.] 

They  said  no  more  to  each  other  that  evening. 
Argemone  was  called  to  the  piano ;  and  Lancelot  took 
up  the  Sporting  Magazine,  and  read  himself  to  sleep 
till  the  party  separated  for  the  night. 

Argemone  went  up  thoughtfully  to  her  own  room. 
The  shower  had  fallen,  and  the  moon  was  shining 
bright,  while  every  budding  leaf  and  knot  of  mould 
steamed  up  cool  perfume,  borrowed  from  the  treasures 
of  the  thunder -cloud.  All  around  was  working  the 
infinite  mystery  of  birth  and  growth,  of  giving  and 
taking,  of  beauty  and  use.  All  things  were  harmoni- 
ous— all  things  reciprocal  without.  Argemone  felt 
herself  needless,  lonely,  and  out  of  tune  with  herself 
and  nature. 

She  sat  in  the  window,  and  listlessly  read  over  to 
herself  a  fragment  of  her  own  poetry  :— 

SAPPHO. 

She  lay  among  the  myrtles  on  the  cliff ; 
Above  her  glared  the  moon  ;  beneath,  the  sea. 
Upon  the  white  horizon  Athos'  peak 
Weltered  in  burning  haze  ;  all  airs  were  dead  ; 
The  sieale  slept  among  the  tamarisk's  hair  ; 
The  birds  sat  dumb  and  drooping.     Far  below 
The  lazy  sea-weed  glistened  in  the  sun  : 
The  lazy  sea-fowl  dried  their  steaming  wings  ; 
The  lazy  swell  crept  whispering  up  the  ledge, 
And  sank  again.     Great  Pan  was  laid  to  rest ; 


32  SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

Ami  mother  Earth  watched  by  him  as  he  slept, 
And  hushed  her  myriad  children  for  awhile. 

She  lay  ainoug  the  myrtles  on  the  cliff ; 
And  sighed  for  sleep,  for  sleep  that  would  not  hear, 
But  left  her  tossing  still :  for  night  and  day 
A  mighty  hunger  yearned  within  her  heart, 
Till  all  her  veins  ran  fever,  and  her  cheek, 
Her  long  thin  hands,  and  ivory-channell'd  feet, 
Were  wasted  with  the  wasting  of  her  soul. 
Then  peevishly  she  flung  her  on  her  face, 
And  hid  her  eyeballs  from  the  blinding  glare, 
And  fingered  at  the  grass,  and  tried  to  cool 
Her  crisp  hot  lips  against  the  crisp  hot  sward  : 
And  then  she  raised  her  head,  and  upward  cast 
Wild  looks  from  homeless  eyes,  whose  liquid  light 
Gleamed  out  between  deep  folds  of  blue-black  hair, 
As  gleam  twin  lakes  between  the  purple  peaks 
Of  deep  Parnassus,  at  the  mournful  moon. 
Beside  her  lay  a  lyre.     She  snatched  the  shell, 
AiuTwaked  \vild  imfsic  from  its  silver  strings  ; 
Then  tossed  it  sadly  by, — "Ah,  hush  !"  she  cries, 
"  Dead  offspring  of  the  tortoise  and  the  mine  ! 
Why  mock  my  discords  with  thine  harmonies  ? 
Although  a  thrice-Olympian  lot  be  thine, 
Only  to  echo  back  in  every  tone, 
The  moods  of  nobler  natures  than  thine  own. " 

"No!"  she  said.  "That  soft  and  rounded  rhyme 
suits  ill  with  Sappho's  fitful  and  wayward  agonies. 
She  should  burst  out  at  once  into  wild  passionate  life- 
weariness,  and  disgust  at  that  universe,  with  whose 
beauty  she  has  filled  her  eyes  in  vain,  to  find  it  always 
a  dead  picture,  unsatisfying,  unloving — as  I  have 
found  it" 

Sweet  self-deceiver !  had  you  no  other  reason  for 
choosing  as  your  heroine  Sappho,  the  victim  of  the 


SPEING  YEAKNINGS.  33 

idolatry  of  intellect — trying  in  vain  to  fill  her  heart 
with  the  friendship  of  her  own  sex,  and  then  sinking 
into  mere  passion  for  a  handsome  boy,  and  so  down 
into  self-contempt  and  suicide  1 

She  was  conscious,  I  do  believe,  of  no  other  reason 
than  that  she  gave  ;  but  consciousness  is  a  dim  candle 
— over  a  deep  mine. 

"  After  all,"  she  said  pettishly,  "  people  will  call  it ! 
a  mere  imitation  of  Shelley's  Alastor.  And  what 
harm  if  it  is?  Is  there  to  be  no  female  Alastor? 
Has  not  the  woman  as  good  a  right  as  the  man  to 
long  after  ideal  beauty — to  pine  and  die  if  she  cannot 
find  it;  and  regenerate  herself  in  its  light?" 

"  Yo-hoo-oo-oo  !  Youp,  youp!  Oh-hooo!"  arose 
doleful  through  the  echoing  shrubbery. 

Argemone  started  and  looked  out.  It  was  not  a 
banshee,  but  a  forgotten  fox -hound  puppy,  sitting 
mournfully  on  the  gravel-walk  beneath,  staring  at  the 
clear  ghastly  moon. 

She  laughed  and  blushed — there  was  a  rebuke  in 
it  She  turned  to  go  to  rest ;  and  as  she  knelt  and 
prayed  at  her  velvet  faldstool,  among  all  the  nick- 
nacks  which  now-a-daylPmlike ~a  luxury jrf  devotion, 
was  it  strangeTf7~after  she  had  prayed  Jor_  the  fate 
of  nations  and  churches,  and  for  thosewho,  as  she 
thought,  were  nghtmgjitjJxford  the  jause_of_uniyersal 
truth  and  reverend  antiquity,  she  remembered  in  her 
petitions  the  poor  godless  youth,  with  his  troubled 
and  troubling  eloquence?  But  it  was  strange  that 

D  Y. 


/ 


34  SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

she  blushed  when  she  mentioned  his  name — why 
should  she  not  pray  for  him  as  she  prayed  for 
others  ? 

Perhaps  she  felt  that  she  did  not  pray  for  him  as 
she  prayed  for  others. 

She  left  the  ^Eolian  harp  in  the  window,  as  a 
luxury  if  she  should  wake,  and  coiled  herself  up 
among  lace  pillows  and  eider  blemos ;  and  the  hound 
coiled  himself  up  on  the  gravel-walk,  after  a  solemn 
vesper -ceremony  of  three  turns  round  in  his  own 
length,  looking  vainly  for  a  "soft  stone."  The  finest 
of  us  are  animals  after  all,  and  live  by  eating  and 
sleeping :  and,  taken  as  animals,  not  so  badly  off 
either — unless  we  happen  to  l>e  Dorsetshire  labourers 
— or  Spitalfields  weavers — or  colliery  children — or 
marching  soldiers — or,  I  am  afraid,  one  half  of  English 

ils  this  day. 

And  Argemone  dreamed ; — that  she  was  a  fox, 
flying  for  her  life  through  a  churchyard — and  Lancelot 
was  a  hound,  yelling  and  leaping,  in  a  red  coat  and 
white  buckskins,  close  upon  her — and  she  felt  his  hot 
breath,  and  saw  his  white  teeth  glare.  .  .  .  And  then 
her  father  was  there  :  and  he  was  an  Italian  boy,  and 
played  the  organ — and  Lancelot  was  a  dancing  dog, 
and  stood  up  and  danced  to  the  tune  of  "C"«s/  Fanwur, 
Famour,  Famour"  pitifully  enough,  in  his  red  coat — 
and  she  stood  up  and  danced  too ;  but  she  found  her 
fox-fur  dress  insufficient,  and  begged  hard  for  a  paper 
frill — which  was  denied  her:  whereat  she  cried  bitterly 
and  woke ;  and  saw  the  Night  peeping  in  with  her 


SPRING  YEARNINGS.  35 

bright  diamond  eyes,  and  blushed,  and  hid  her  beauti- 
ful face  in  the  pillows,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

What  the  little  imp,  who  managed  this  puppet- 
show  on  Argemone's  brain-stage,  may  have  intended 
to  symbolise  thereby,  and  whence  he  stole  his  actors 
and  stage-properties,  and  whether  he  got  up  the  inter- 
lude for  his  own  private  fun,  or  for  that  of  a  choir  of 
brother  Eulenspiegels,  or,  finally,  for  the  edification 
of  Argemone  as  to  her  own  history,  past,  present,  or 
future,  are  questions  which  we  must  leave  unanswered,  / 
till  physicians  have  become  a  little  more  of  metaphy- 
sicians, and  have  given  up  their  present  plan  of  ignor-j 
ing  for  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  pages  that  most) 
awful  and  significant  custom  of  dreaming,  and  then  im  4 
the  thousandth  page  talking  the  boldest  materialist! 
twaddle  about  it. 

In  the  meantime,  Lancelot,  contrary  to  the  colonel's 
express  commands,  was  sitting  up  to  indite  the  follow- 
ing letter  to  his  cousin,  the  JTractarian^mate. : — 

"You  complain  that  I  waste  my  time  in  field- 
sports  :  how  do  you  know  that  I  waste  my  time  1  I 
find  within  myself  certain  appetites ;  and  I  suppose 
that  the  God  whom  you  say  made  me,  made  those 
appetites  as  a  part  of  me.  Why  are  they  to  be  crushed 
any  more  than  any  other  part  of  me  1  I  am  the  whole 
of  what  I  find  in  myself — am  I  to  pick  and  choose 
myself  out  of  myself  1  And  besides,  I  feel  that  the 
exercise  of  freedom,  activity,  foresight,  daring,  inde- 
pendent self-determination,  even  in  a  few  minutes' 
burst  across  country,  strengthens  me  in  mind  as  well 


36  SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

as  in  body.  It  might  not  do  so  to  you ;  but  you  are 
of  a  different  constitution,  and,  from  all  I  see,  the 
power  of  a  man's  muscles,  the  excitability  of  his  nerves, 
the  shape  and  balance  of  his  brain,  make  him  what  he 
is.  Else  what  is  the  meaning  of  physiognomy?  Every 
man's  destiny,  as  the  Turks  say,  stands  written  on  his 
forehead.  One  does  not  need  two  glances  at  yoiir^j 
face  to  know  that  you  would  not  enjoy  fox-hunting,  / 
that  you  would  enjoy  book-learning,  and  'refined! 
repose,'  as  they  are  pleased  to  call  it  Every  manj 
carries  his  character  in  his  brain.  You  all  know  that, 
and  act  upon  it  when  you  have  to  deal  with  a  man  for 
sixpence ;  but  your  religious  dogmas,  which  make  out 
that  every  man  comes  into  the  world  equally  brutish 
and  fiendish,  make  you  afraid  to  confess  it  I  don't 
quarrel  with  a  '  douce '  man  like  you,  with  a  large 
organ  of  veneration,  for  following  your  bent  But  if 
I  I  am  fiery,  with  a  huge  cerebellum,  why  am  I  not  to 
follow  mine? — For  that  is  what  you  do,  after  all — 
what  you  like  best  It  is  all  very  easy  for  a  man 
to  talk  of  conquering  his  appetites,  when  he  has  none 
to  conquer.  Try  and  conquer  your  organ  of  venera- 
tion, or  of  benevolence,  or  of  calculation — then  I  will 
call  you  an  ascetic.  Why  not! — The  same  Power 
which  made  the  front  of  one's  head  made  the  back,  I 
supposeY 

"And,  I  tell  you,  hunting  does  me  good.  It 
awakens  me  out  of  my  dreary  mill-round  of  meta- 
physics. It  sweeps  away  that  infernal  web  of  self 
consciousness,  and  absorbs  me  in  outward  objects ;  and 


SPRING  YEARNINGS.  37 

my  red-hot  Perillus's  bull  cools  in  proportion  as  my 
horse  warms.  I  tell  you,  I  never  saw  a  man  who 
could  cut  out  his  way  across  country  who  could  not 
cut  his  way  through  better  things  when  his  turn  came. 
The  cleverest  and  noblest  fellows  are  sure  to  be  the 
best  riders  in  the  long  run.  And  as  for  bad  company 
and  '  the  world,'  when  you  take  to  going  in  the  first- 
class  carriages  for  fear  of  meeting  a  swearing  sailor  in 
the  second-class — when  those  who  have  'renounced 
the  world '  give  up  buying  and  selling  in  the  funds — 
when  my  uncle,  the  pious  banker,  who  will  only 
'  associate '  with  the  truly  religious,  gives  up  dealing 
with  any  scoundrel  or  heathen  who  can  '  do  business ' 
with  him — then  you  may  quote  pious  people's  opinions 
to  me.  In  God's  name,  if  the  Stock  Exchange,  and 
railway  stagging,  and  the  advertisements  in  the  Pro- 
testant Hue-and-Cry,  and  the  frantic  Mammon-hunting 
which  has  been  for  the  last  fifty  years  the  peculiar 
pursuit  of  the  majority  of  Quakers,  Dissenters,  and 
Eeligious  Churchmen,  are  not  The  World,  what  is  1  I 
don't  complain  of  them,  though;  Puritanism  has  in- 
terdicted to  them  all  art,  all  excitement,  all  amusement 
— except  money-making.  It  is  their  dernier  ressort, 
poor  souls ! 

"  But  you  must  explain  to  us  naughty  fox-hunters 
how  all  this  agrees  with  the  good  book.  We  see 
plainly  enough,  in  the  meantime,  how  it  agrees  with 
'poor  human  nature.'  We  see  that  the  'religious 
world,'  like  the  'great  world,'  and  the  'sporting 
world,'  and  the  'literary  world,' 


38  SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

'  '  '  Compounds  for  sins  she  is  inclined  to, 
By  damning  those  she  has  no  mind  to  ;' 

and  that  because  England  is  a  money-making  country, 
and  money-making  is  an  effeminate  pursuit,  therefore 
all  sedentary  and  spoony  sins,  like  covetousness, 
slander,  bigotry,  and  self-conceit,  are  to  be  cockered 
and  plastered  over,  while  the  more  masculine  vices, 
and  no-vices  also,  are  mercilessly  hunted  down  by  your 
cold-blooded,  soft-handed  religionists. 

"  This  is  a  more  quiet  letter  than  usual  from  me, 
my  dear  coz,  for  many  of  your  reproofs  cut  me  home  : 
they  angered  me  at  the  time  ;  but  I  deserve  them.  I 
am  miserable,  self-disgusted,  self-helpless,  craving  for 
freedom,  and  yet  crying  aloud  for  some  one  to  come 
and  guide  me,  and  teach  me  ;  and  who  is  tJicre  in  these 
days  who  could  teach  a  fast  man,  even  if  he  would  try  ? 
Be  sure,  that  as  long  as  you  and  yours  make  piety 
a  synonym  for  unmanlinett,  you  will  never  convert 
either  me  or  any  other  good  sportsman. 

byo,  my  dear  fellow,  was  I  asleep  or 


awake  when  I  seemed  to  read  in  the  postscript  of 
your  last  letter,  something  about  'being  driven  to 
Rome  after  all?'  .  .  .  Why  thither,  of  all  places  in 
heaven  or  earth?  You  know,  I  have  no  party  interest 
in  the  question.  All  creeds  are  very  much  alike  to 
me  just  now.  But  allow  me  to  ask,  in  a  spirit  of  the 
most  tolerant  curiosity,  what  possible  celestial  bait, 
either  of  the  useful  or  the  agreeable  kind,  can  the 
present  excellent  Pope,  or  his  adherents,  hold  out  to 
you  in  compensation  for  the  solid  earthly  pudding 


'SPRING  YEARNINGS.  39 

which  you  would  have  to  desert?  ...  I  dare  say, 
though,  that  I  shall  not  comprehend  your  answer 
when  it  comes.  I  am,  you  know,  utterly  deficient  in 
that  sixth  sense  of  the  angelic  or  supralunar  beautiful, 
which  fills  your  soul  with  ecstasy.  You,  I  know, 
expect  and  long  to  become  an  angel  after  death :  I 
arn_under  the  strange^  hallucination  that  my  body  is 
part  of  me,  and  in  spite  of  old  Plotinus,  look  with 
"Horror  at  a  disembodiment  till  the  giving  of  that  new 
body,  the  great  perfection  of  which,  in  your  eyes,  and 
those  of  every  one  else,  seems  to  be,  that  it  will  be 
less,  and  not  more  of  a  body,  than  our  present  one. 
...  Is  this  hope,  to  me  at  once  inconceivable  and 
contradictory,  palpable  and  valuable  enough  to  you  to 
send  you  to  that  Italian  Avernus,  to  get  it  made  a 
little  more  certain  ?  If  so,  I  despair  of  your  making 
your  meaning  intelligible  to  a  poor  fellow  wallowing, 
like  me,  in  the  Hylic  Borboros — or  whatever  else  you 
may  choose  to  call  the  unfortunate  fact  of  being  flesh 
and  blood.  .  .  .  Still,  write." 


CHAPTER  III. 

NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

WHEN  Argemone  rose  in  the  morning,  her  first 
thought  was  of  Lancelot  His  face  haunted  her.  The 
wild  brilliance  of  his  intellect  struggling  through  foul 
smoke-clouds,  had  haunted  her  still  more.  She  had 
heard  of  his  profligacy,  his  bursts  of  fierce  Berserk- 
madness;  and  yet  now  these  very  faults,  instvud  of 
repelling,  seemed  to  attract  her,  and  intensify  her 
longing  to  save  him.  She  would  convert  him  ;  purify 
him;  harmonise  his  discords.  And  that  very  \\isli 
gave  her  a  peace  she  had  never  felt  before.  Slujjuul 
formed  her  idea ;  she  had  now  a  purpose  for  which 
tolivc,  and  she  determined  to  concentrate  herself  for 
the  work,  and  longed  for  the  moment  when  she 
should  meet  Lancelot,  and  begin — how,  she  did  not 
very  clearly  see. 

It  is  an  old  jest — the  fair  devotee  trying  to  convert 
the  young  rake.  Men  of  the  world  lau^h  heartily  at 
it ;  and  so  does  the  devil,  no  doubt  If  any  readers 
wish  to  be  fellow-jesters  with  that  personage,  tln-y 
may ;  but,  as  sure  as  old  Saxon  womcn^'on^T  ™. 
mains  for  ever  a  bl«  I  healing  law  of  lit".-,  the 


NEW  ACTOES,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.       41 

devotee  may  yet  convert  the  rake — and,  perhaps,  her- 
self into  the  bargain. 

Argemone  looked  almost  angrily  round  at  her 
beloved  books  and  drawings ;  for  they  spoke  a  mess- 
age to  her  which  they  had  never  spoken  before,  of 
self-centred  ambition.  "Yes,"  she  said  aloud  to 
herself,  "  I  have  been  selfish,  utterly !  Art,  poetry, 
science — I  believe,  after  all,  that  I  have  only  loved 
them  for  my  own  sake,  not  for  theirs,  because  they 
would  make  me  something,  feed  my  conceit  of  my 
own  talents.  How  infinitely  more  glorious  to  find 
my  work-field  and  my  prize,  not  in  dead  forms  and 
colours,  or  ink -and -paper  theories,  but  in  a  living, 
immortal,  human  spirit !  I  will  study  no  more,  except 
the  human  heart,  and  only  that  to  purify  and  en- 
noble it." 

True,  Argemone ;  and  yet,  like  all  resolutions, 
somewhat  less  than  the  truth.  That  morning,  indeed, 
her  purpose  was  simple  as  God's  own  light.  She 
never  dreamed  of  exciting  Lancelot's  admiration,  even 
his  friendship  for  herself.  She  would  have  started 
as  from  -a  snake,  from  the  issue  which  the  reader 
very  clearly  foresees,  that  Lancelot  would  fall  in  love, 
not  with  Young  Englandism,  but  with  Argemone 
Lavington.  But  yet  self  is  not  eradicated  even  from 
a  woman's  heart  in  one  morning  before  breakfast. 
Besides,  it  is  not  "benevolence,"  but  love — the  real 
Cupid  of  flesh  and  blood,  who  can  first 

"  Touch  the  chord  of  self  which,  trembling, 
Passes  in  music  out  of  sight. " 


42  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

But  a  time  for  all  things ;  and  it  is  now  time  for 
Argemone  to  go  down  to  breakfast,  having  prepared 
some  dozen  imaginary  dialogues  between  herself  and 
Lancelot,  in  which,  of  course,  her  eloquence  always 
had  the  victory.     She  had  yet  to  learn,  that  it  ifh 
better  sometimes  not  to  settle  in  one's  heart  what  wo/ 
shall  speak,  for  the  Everlasting  Will  has  good  works^ 
ready  prepared  for  us  to  walk  in,  by  what  we  call 
fortunate  accident ;  and  it  shall  be  given  us  in  that\ 
day  and  that  hour  what  we  shall  speak 

Lancelot,  in  the  meantime,  shrank  from  meeting 
Argemone ;  and  was  quite  glad  of  the  weakness  which 
kept  him  upstairs.  Whether  he  was  afraid  of  her — 
whether  he  was  ashamed  of  himself  or  of  his  crutches, 
I  cannot  tell,  but  Ijdaifi^sav,  reader.  you_are_getting 
tired  of  all  this  soul-dissecting.  So  we  will  have  a 
T)it"of  action  again,  for  the  sake  of  variety  if  for 
nothing  better! 

Of  all  the  species  of  lovely  scenery  which  England 
holds,  none,  perhaps,  is  more  exquisite  than  the  banks 
of  the  chalk-rivers — the  perfect  limpidity  of  the  water, 
the  gay  and  luxuriant  vegetation  of  the  banks  and 
ditches,  the  masses  of  noble  wood  embosoming  the 
villages,  the  unique  beauty  of  the  water-meadows,  liv- 
ing sheets  of  emerald  and  silver,  tinkling  and  spark- 
ling, cool  under  the  fiercest  sun,  brilliant  under  the 
blackest  clouds. — There,  if  anywhere,  one  would  have 
expected  to  find  Arcadia  among  fertility,  loveliness, 
industry,  and  wealth.  But,  alas  for  the  sad  reality ! 
the  cool  breath  of  those  glittering  water-meadows  too 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.  43 

often  floats   laden  with  poisonous  miasma.      Those 
picturesque  villages  are  generally  the  perennial  hot- 
beds of  fever  and  ague,of  squalid  pcnui),  uolLibk 
profligacy,  dull  discontent  too  stale  for  words.     There 
is  luxury  in  the  park,  wealth  in  the  huge  farm-stead- 
ings,   knowledge   in  the   parsonage :   but   the  poor  1    /_^/ 
those  by  whose  dull  labour  all  that  luxury  ancTwealth,      ., 
ay,  even  that  knowledge,  is  made  possible — what  are    ' 
they  1    We  shall  see,  please  God,  ere  the  story's  end. 

But_of__alLl]iis  Lancelot  as  yejrtEought  ^nothing. 
He,  too,  had  to  be  emancipated,  as  much  as  Arge- 
mone,  from  selfish  dreams;  to  learn  to  work  trust- 
fully in  the  living  Present,  not  to  gloat  sentimentally 
over  the  unreturning  Past.  But  his  time  was  not  yet 
come ;  and  little  he  thought  of  all  the  work  which  lay 
ready  for  him  within  a  mile  of  the  Priory,  as  he 
watched  the  ladies  go  out  for  the  afternoon,  and 
slipped  down  to  the  Nun's-pool  on  his  crutches  to 
smoke  and  fish,  and  build  castles  in  the  air. 

The  Priory,  with  its  rambling  courts  and  gardens, 
stood  on  an  island  in  the  river.  The  upper  stream 
flowed  in  a  straight  artificial  channel  through  the 
garden,  still  and  broad,  towards  the  Priory  mill; 
while  just  above  the  Priory  wall  half  the  river  fell 
over  a  high  weir,  with  all  its  appendages  of  bucks  and 
hatchways,  and  eel-baskets,  into  the  Nun's-pool,  and 
then  swept  round  under  the  ivied  walls,  with  their 
fantastic  turrets  and  gables,  and  little  loopholed  win- 
dows, peering  out  over  the  stream,  as  it  hurried  down 
over  the  shallows  to  join  the  race  below  the  mill.  A 


44      NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

postern  door  in  the  walls  opened  on  an  ornamental 
wooden  bridge  across  the  weir-head — a  favourite  haunt 
of  all  fishers  and  sketchers  who  were  admitted  to  the 
dragon-guarded  Elysium  of  Whitford  Priors.  Thither 
Lancelot  went,  congratulating  himself,  strange  to  say, 
in  having  escaped  the  only  human  being  whom  he 
loved  on  earth. 

He  found  on  the  weir-bridge  two_of^tho  keepers. 
The  younger  one,  Trcgarva,  was  a  stately,  thoughtful- 
looking  Cornishman,  some  six  feet  three  in  height, 
with  thews  and  sinews  in  proportion.  He  was  sitting 
on  the  bridge  looking  over  a  basket  of  eel-lines,  and 
listening  silently  to  the  chat  of  his  companion. 

Old  Harry  Yerney^  the  other  keeper,  was  a  cha- 
racter in  his  way,  and  a  very  bad  character,  too,  though 
he  was  a  patriarch  among  all  the  gamekeepers  of  the 
vale.  He  was  a  short,  wiry,  bandy-legged,  ferret- 
visaged  old  man,  with  grizzled  hair,  and  a  wizened 
face  tanned  brown  and  purple  by  constant  exposure. 
Between  rheumatism  and  constant  handling  the  rod 
and  gun,  his  fingers  were  crooked  like  a  hawk's  claws. 
He  kept  his  left  eye  always  shut,  apparently  to  save 
trouble  in  shooting ;  and  squinted,  and  sniffed,  and 
peered,  with  a  stooping  back  and  protruded  chin,  as 
if  he  were  perpetually  on  the  watch  for  fish,  flesh,  and 
fowl,  vermin  and  Christian.  The  friendship  between 
himself  and  the  Scotch  terrier  at  his  heels  would  have 
been  easily  explained  by  Leasing,  for  in  the  transmi- 
gration of  souls  the  spirit  of  Harry  Verney  had  evi- 
dently once  animated  a  dog  of  that  breed.  He  was 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.      45 

dressed  in  a  huge  thick  fustian  jacket,  scratched, 
stained,  and  patched,  with  bulging,  greasy  pockets ;  a 
cast  of  flies  round  a  battered  hat,  riddled  with  shot- 
holes,  a  dog-whistle  at  his  button-hole,  and  an  old  gun 
cut  short  over  his  arm,  bespoke  his  business. 

"  I  seed  that  'ere  Crawy  against  Ashy  Down  Plan- 
tations last  night,  I'll  be  sworn,"  said  he,  in  a  squeak- 
ing, sneaking  tone. 

"Well,  what  harm  was  the  man  doing1?" 

"  Oh,  ay,  that's  the  way  you  young  'uns  talk.  If 
he  warn't  doing  mischief,  he'd  a  been  glad  to  have 
been  doing  it,  I'll  warrant.  If  I'd  been  as  young  as 
you,  I'd  have  picked  a  quarrel  with  him  soon  enough, 
and  found  a  cause  for  tackling  him.  It's  worth  a 
brace  of  sovereigns  with  the  squire  to  haul  him  up. 
Eh  1.  eh  ?  Ain't  old  Harry  right  now  ?" 

"Humph  !"  growled  the  younger  man. 

"  There,  then,  you  get  me  a  snare  and  a  hare  by 
to-morrow  night,"  went  on  old  Harry,  "and  see  if  I 
don't  nab  him.  It  won't  lay  long  under  the  plantation 
afore  he  picks  it  up.  You  mind  to  snare  me  a  hare 
to-night,  now ! " 

"I'll  do  no  such  thing,  nor  help  to  bring  false 
accusations  against  any  man  ! " 

"  False  accusations ! "  answered  Harry,  in  his 
cringing  way.  "  Look  at  that  now,  for  a  keeper  to 
say !  Why,  if  he  don't  happen  to  have  a  snare  just 
there,  he  has  somewhere  else,  you  know.  Eh  1  Ain't 
old  Harry  right  now,  eh?" 

"Maybe." 


46  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

"  There,  don't  say  I  don't  know  nothing  then.  Eh  ? 
What  matter  who  put  the  snare  down,  or  the  hare  in, 
perwided  he  takes  it  up,  man  ?  If  'twas  his'n  he'd  be 
all  the  better  pleased.  The  most  notoriousest  poacher 
as  walks  unhung ! "  And  old  Harry  lifted  up  his 
crooked  hands  in  pious  indignation. 

"I'll  have  no  more  gamekeeping,  Harry.  What 
with  hunting  down  Christians  as  if  they  were  vermin, 
all  night,  and  being  cursed  by  the  squire  all  day,  I'd 
sooner  be  a  sheriffs  runner,  or  a  negro  slave." 

"Ay,  ay!  that's  the  way  the  young  dogs  always 
bark  afore  they're  broke  in,  and  gets  to  Like  it,  as  the 
eels  does  skinning.  Haven't  I  bounced  pretty  near 
out  of  my  skin  many  a  time  afore  now,  on  this  here 
very  bridge,  with  '  Harry,  jump  in,  you  stupid  hound  !' 
and  '  Harry,  get  out,  you  one-eyed  tailor ! '  And  then, 
if  one  of  the  gentlemen  lost  a  fish  with  their  clumsi- 
ness— Oh,  Father !  to  hear  'em  let  out  at  me  and  my 
landing-net,  and  curse  fit  to  fright  the  devil !  Dash 
their  sarcy  tongues  !  Eh  !  Don't  old  Harry  know 
their  ways?  Don't  he  know  'em,  now?" 

"  Ay,"  said  the  young  man,  bitterly.  "  We  break 
the  dogs,  and  we  load  the  guns,  and  we  find  the  game, 
and  mark  the  game, — and  then  they  call  themselves 
sportsmen ;  we  choose  the  flies,  and  we  bait  the 
spinning-hooks,  and  we  show  them  where  the  fish  lie, 
and  then  when  they've  hooked  them,  they  can't  get 
them  out  without  us  and  the  spoon-net ;  and  then  they 
go  home  to  the  ladies  and  boast  of  the  lot  of  fish  they 
killed — and  who  thinks  of  the  keeper?" 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.  47 

"  Oh !  ah !  Then  don't  say  old  Harry  knows 
nothing,  then.  How  nicely,  now,  you  and  I  might 
get  a  living  off  this  'ere  manor,  if  the  landlords  was 
served  like  the  French  ones  was.  Eh,  Paul  ?"  chuckled 
old  Harry.  "Wouldn't  we  pay  our  taxes  with  phea- 
sants and  grayling,  that's  all,  eh?  Ain't  old  Harry 
right  now,  eh?" 

The  old  fox  was  fishing  for  an  assent,  not  for  its 
own  sake,  for  he  was  a  fierce  Tory,  and  would  have 
stood  up  to  be  shot  at  any  day,  not  only  for  his 
master's  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  a  single  pheasant  of 
his  master's ;  but  he  hated  Tregarva  for  many  reasons, 
and  was  daily  on  the  watch  to  entrap  him  on  some 
of  his  peculiar  points,  whereof  he  had,  as  we  shall  find, 
a  good  many. 

What  would  have  been  Tregarva's  answer,  I  cannot 
tell ;  -but  Lancelot,  who  had  unintentionally  overheard 
the  greater  part  of  the  conversation,  disliked  being 
any  longer  a  listener,  and  came  close  to  them. 

"Here's  your  gudgeons  and  minnows,  sir,  as  you 
bespoke,"  quoth  Harry ;  "  and  here's  that  paternoster 
as  you  gave  me  to  rig  up.  Beautiful  minnows,  sir, 
white  as  a  silver  spoon. — They're  the  ones  now,  ain't 
they,  sir,  eh?" 

"They'll  do!" 

"Well,  then,  don't  say  old  Harry  don't  know 
nothing,  that's  all,  eh?"  and  the  old  fellow  toddled 
off,  peering  and  twisting  his  head  about  like  a  starling. 

"  An  odd  old  fellow  that,  Tregarva,"  said  Lancelot. 

"Very,  sir,  considering  who  made  him,"  answered 


48  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STACK. 

the  Cornishman,  touching  his  hat,  and  then  thrusting 
his  nose  deeper  than  ever  into  the  eel-basket 

"  Beautiful  stream  this,"  said  Lancelot,  who  had  a 
continual  longing — right  or  wrong — to  chat  with  his 
inferiors ;  and  was  proportionately  sulky  and  reserved 
to  his  superiors. 

"  Beautiful  enough,  sir,"  said  the  keeper,  with  an 
emphasis  on  the  first  word. 

"  Why,  has  it  any  other  fault?" 

"  Not  so  wholesome  as  pretty,  sir." 

•  What  harm  does  it  do?" 

"Fever,  and  ague,  and  rheumatism,  sir." 

•  Whercf"  asked  Lancelot,  a  IfftftraTmised  by  the 
man's  laconic  answers. 

"Wherever  the  white  fog  spreads,  sir." 

••Where's  that?" 

"Everywhere,  sir." 

"  And  when  ?" 

"Always,  sir." 

Lancelot  burst  out  laughing.  The  man  looked  up 
/ut  him  slowly  and  seriously. 

"  You  wouldn't  laugh,  sir,  if  you'd  seen  much  of 
the  inside  of  these  cottages  round." 

"Really,"  said  Lancelot,  "I  was  only  laughing  at 
our  making  such  very  short  work  of  such  a  long  and 
serious  story.  Do  you  mean  that  the  unhealthiness 
of  this  country  is  wholly  rausnl  l>v  the  river?" 

"  No,  sir.  The  river-damps  are  (Sod's  sending ;  and 
so  they  are  not  too  bad  to  l>ear.  But  there's  more  of 
man*  s  sending,  that  is  too  bad  to  bi-ur." 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.  49 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Are  men  likely  to  be  healthy  when  they  are 
worse  housed  than  a  pig?" 

"No." 

"And  worse  fed  than  a  hound ?" 

"  Good  heavens  !     No  !" 

"Or  packed  together  to  sleep,  like  pilchards  in  a 
barrel  T 

"But,  my  good  fellow,  do  you  mean  that  the 
labourers  here  are  in  that  state  V 

"  It  isn't  far  to  walk,  sir.  Perhaps  some  day,  when 
the  May-fly  is  gone  off,  and  the  fish  won't  rise  awhile, 
you  could  walk  down  and  see.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir,  though,  for  thinking  of  such  a  thing.  They  are 
not  places  fit  for  gentlemen,  that's  certain."  There 
was  a  staid  irony  in  his  tone,  which  Lancelot  felt 

"But  the  clergyman  goes?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  Miss  Honoria  goes?" 

"Yes,  God  Almighty  bless  her  !" 

"And  do  not  they  see  that  all  goes  right?" 

The  giant  twisted  his  huge  limbs,  as  if  trying  to 
avoid  an  answer,  and  yet  not  daring  to  do  so. 

"Do  clergymen  go  about  among  the  poor  much, 
sir,  at  college,  before  they  are  ordained  ?" 

Lancelot  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  thought  so,  sir.  Our  good  vicar  is  like  the  rest 
hereabouts.  God  knows,  he  stints  neither  time  nor 
money — the  souls  of  the  poor  are  well  looked  after, 

E  v. 


50  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

and  their  Ixxlies  too — as  far  as  his  purse  will  go;  but 
that's  not  far." 

"  Is  ho  ill-off,  then  ?" 

"The  living's  worth  some  forty  pounds  a  year. 
The  great  tithes,  they  say,  are  worth  hotter  than 
twelve  hundred  ;  but  Squire  Lavington  has  them." 

"Oh,  I  see  !"  said  Lancelot 

"  I'm  glad  you  do,  sir,  for  I  don't,"  meekly  answered 
Tregarva.  "  But  the  vicar,  sir,  he  is  a  kind  man,  and 
a  good ;  but  the  poor  don't  understand  him,  nor  ho 
them.  He  is  too  learned,  sir,  and,  saving  your 
presence,  too  fond  of  his  prayer-book." 

"One  can't  be  too  fond  of  a  good  thing." 

"  Not  unless  you  make  an  idol  of  it,  sir,  and  fancy 
that  men's  souls  were  made  for  the  prayer-book,  and 
not  the  prayer-book  for  them." 

"  But  cannot  he  expose  and  redress  these  evils,  if 
they  exist?" 

Tregarva  twisted  about  again. 

"  I  do  not  say  that  I  think  it,  sir ;  but  this  I  know, 
that  every  poor  man  in  the  vale  thinks  it — that  the 
parsons  are  afraid  of  the  landlords.  They  must  see 
these  things,  for  they  are  not  blind  ;  and  they  try  to 
plaster  them  up  out  of  their  own  pockets." 

"  But  why,  in  Owl's  name,  don't  they  strike  at  the 
root  of  the  matter,  and  go  straight  to  the  landlords 
and  tell  them  the  truth  1"  asked  Lancelot. 

"  So  people  say,  sir.  I  sec  no  reason  for  it,  except 
the  one  which  I  gave  you.  Besides,  sir,  you  must 
remember,  that  a  man  can't  quarrel  with  his  own  kin  ; 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.  51 

and  so  many  of  them  are  their  squire's  brothers,  or 
sons,  or  nephews." 

"  Or  good  friends  with  him,  at  least." 

"  Ay,  sir,  and,  to  do  them  justice,  they  had  need,  for 
the  poor's  sake,  to  keep  good  friends  with  the  squire. 
How  else  are  they  to  get  a  farthing  for  schools,  or 
coal -subscriptions,  or  lying -in -societies,  or  lending 
libraries,  or  penny  clubs  1  If  they  spoke  their  minds 
to  the  great  ones,  sir,  how  could  they  keep  the  parish 
together?" 

"  You  seem  to  see  both  sides  of  a  question,  certainly. 
But  what  a  miserable  state  of  things,  that  the  labouring 
man,  should  require  all  these  societies,  and  charities, 
and  helps  from  the  rich  ! — that  an  industrious  freeman 
cannot  live  without  alms  ! " 

"So  I  have  thought  this  long  time,"  quietly 
answered  Tregarva. 

"But  Miss  Honoria, — she  is  not  afraid  to  tell  her 
father  the  truth?" 

"Suppose,  sir,  when  Adam  and  Eve  were  in  the 
garden,  that  all  the  devils  had  come  up  and  played 
their  fiends'  tricks  before  them, — do  you  think  they'd 
have  seen  any  shame  in  it?" 

"I  really  cannot  tell,"  said  Lancelot,  smiling. 

"  Then  I  can,  sir.  They'd  have  seen  no  more  harm 
in  it  than  there  was  harm  already  in  themselves ;  and 
that  was  none.  A  man's  eyes  can  only  see  what 
they've  learnt  to  see." 

Lancelot  started  :  it  was  a  favourite  dictum  of  his 
in  Carlyle's  works. 


52  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  thought,  my  friend ?" 

"By  seeing,  sir." 

"But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Miss  Honoria?" 

"She  is  an  angel  of  holiness  herself,  sir;  and, 
therefore,  she  goes  on  without  blushing  or  suspecting, 
where  our  blood  would  boil  again.  She  sees  people  in 
want,  and  thinks  it  must  be  so,  and  pities  them  and 
relieves  them.  But  she  don't  know  want  herself; 
and,  therefore,  she  don't  know  that  it  makes  men 
beasts  and  devils.  She's  as  pure  as  God's  light  herself ; 
and,  therefore,  she  fancies  every  one  is  as  spotless  as 
she  is.  And  there's  another  mistake  in  your  chari- 
table great  people,  sir.  When  they  see  poor  folk  sick 
or  hungry  before  their  eyes,  they  pull  out  their  purses 
fast  enough,  God  bless  them ;  for  they  wouldn't  like 
to  be  so  themselves.  But  the  oppression  that  goes 
on  all  the  year  round,  and  the  want  that  goes  on 
all  the  year  round,  and  the  filth,  and  the  lying,  and 
the  swearing,  and  the  profligacy,  that  go  on  all  the 
year  round,  and  the  sickening  weight  of  debt,  and  the 
miserable  grinding  anxiety  from  rent-day  to  rent-day, 
and  Saturday  night  to  Saturday  night,  that  crushes 
a  man's  soul  down,  and  drives  every  thought  out  of 
his  head  but  how  he  is  to  fill  his  stomach  and  warm 
his  back,  and  keep  a  house  over  his  head,  till  ho 
daren't  for  his  life  take  his  thoughts  one  moment  off 
the  meat  that  perisheth — oh,  sir,  they  never  felt 
this ;  and,  therefore,  they  never  dream  that  there  are 
thousands  who  pass  them  in  their  daily  walks  who 
feel  this,  and  feel  nothing  else  ! " 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.      53 

This  outburst  was  uttered  with  an  earnestness  and 
majesty  which  astonished  Lancelot.  He  forgot  the 
subject  in  the  speaker. 

"  You  are  a  very  extraordinary  gamekeeper !"  said 
he. 

"When  the  Lord  shows  a  man  a  thing,  he  can't 
well  help  seeing  it,"  answered  Tregarva,  in  his  usual 
staid  tone. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  keeper  looked  at  him 
with  a  glance,  before  which  Lancelot's  eyes  fell. 

"  Hell  is  paved  with  hearsays,  sir,  and  as  all  this 
talk  of  mine  is  hearsay,  if  you  are  in  earnest,  sir,  go 
and  see  for  yourself.  I  know  you  have  a  kind  heart, 
and  they  tell  me  that  you  are  a  great  scholar,  which 
would  to  God  I  was  !  so  you  ought  not  to  condescend 
to  take  my  word  for  anything  which  you  can  look  into 
yourself;"  with  which  sound  piece  of  common -sense 
Tregarva  returned  busily  to  his  eel-lines. 

"  Hand  me  the  rod  and  can,  and  help  me  out  along 
the  buck- stage,"  said  Lancelot;  "I  must  have  some 
more  talk  with  you,  my  fine  fellow." 

"Amen,"  answered  Tregarva,  as  he  assisted  our 
lame  hero  along  a  huge  beam  which  stretched  out  into 
the  pool;  and  having  settled  him  there,  returned 
mechanically  to  his  work,  humming  a  Wesleyan 
hymn-tune. 

L~B3ieeloJL  sat  and  tried  to  catch  perch,  but  Tre- 
garva's  words  haunted  him.  He  lighted  his  cigar,  and 
tried  to  think  earnestly  over  the  matter,  but  he  had 
got  into  the  wrong  place  for  thinking.  All  his 


54      NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

thoughts,  all  his  sympathies,  were  drowned  in  the  rush 
and  whirl  of  the  water.  He  forgot  everything  else 
in  the  mere  animal  enjoyment  of  sight  and  sound. 
Like  many  young  men  at  his  crisis  of  life,  he  had 
given  himself  up  to  the  mere  contemplation  of  Nature 
till  he  had  become  her  slave;  and  now  a  luscious 
scene,  a  singing-bird,  were  enough  to  allure  his  mind 
away  from  the  most  earnest  and  awful  thoughts.  He 
tried  to  think,  but  the  river  would  not  let  him.  It 
thundered  and  spouted  out  behind  him  from  the 
hatches,  and  leapt  madly  past  him,  and  caught  his 
eyes  in  spite  of  him,  and  swept  them  away  down  its 
dancing  waves,  and  let  them  go  again  only  to  sweep 
them  down  again  and  again,  till  his  brain  felt  a  deli- 
cious dizziness  from  the  everlasting  nish  and  the  ever- 
lasting roar.  And  then  talow,  how  it  spread,  and 
writhed,  and  whirled  into  transparent  fans,  hissing 
and  twining  snakes,  polished  glass -wreaths,  huge 
crystal  bells,  which  boiled  up  from  the  bottom,  and 
dived  again  beneath  long  threads  of  creamy  foam,  and 
swung  round  posts  and  roots,  and  rushed  blackening 
under  dark  weed-fringed  boughs,  and  gnawed  at  the 
marly  banks,  and  shook  the  ever-restless  bulrushes, 
till  it  was  swept  away  and  down  over  the  white 
pebbles  and  olive  weeds,  in  one  broad  rippling  sheet 
of  molten  silver,  towards  the  distant  sea.  Downwards 
it  fleeted  ever,  and  bore  his  thoughts  floating  on  its 
oily  stream ;  and  the  great  trout,  with  their  yellow 
Hides  and  peacock  backs,  lunged  among  the  eddies, 
and  the  silver  grayling  dimpled  and  wandered  ujion 


NEW  ACTOKS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.  55 

the  shallows,  and  the  may -flies  flickered  and  rustled 
round  him  like  water  fairies,  with  their  green  gauzy  I     , 
wings ;  the  coot  clanked  musically  among  the  reeds ;  \  J, 
the  frogs  hummed  their  ceaseless  vesper -monotone;  | 
the  kingfisher  darted  from  his  hole  in  the  bank  like  J 
a  blue   spark  of   electric   light;   the   swallows'  bills 
snapped  as  they  twined  and  hawked  above  the  pool ; 
the  swift's  wings  whirred  like  musket -balls,  as  they 
rushed  screaming  past  his  head ;  and  ever  the  river 
fleeted  by,  bearing  his  eyes  away  down  the  current, 
till  its  wild  eddies  began  to  glow  with  crimson  beneath 
the  setting  sun.     The  complex  harmony  of  sights  and 
sounds  slid  softly  over  his  soul,  and  he  sank  away 
into  a  still  day-dream,  too  passive  for  imagination,  too 
deep  for  meditation,  and 

' '  Beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound, 
Did  pass  into  his  face." 

Blame  him  not.  There  are  more  things  in  a  man's 
heart  than  ever  get  in  through  his  thoughts. 

On  a  sudden,  a  soft  voice  behind  him  startled  him. 

"  Can  a  poor  cockney  artist  venture  himself  along 
this  timber  without  falling  in  1" 

Lancelot  turned. 

"  Come  out  to  me,  and  if  you  stumble,  the  naiads 
will  rise  out  of  their  depths,  and  '  hold  up  their  pearled 
wrists '  to  save  their  favourite." 

The  artist  walked  timidly  out  along  the  beams, 
and  sat  down  beside  Lancelot,  who  shook  him  warmly 
by  the  hand. 

"Welcome,  Claude  Mellot,  and  all  lovely  enthusi- 


56      NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

asms  and  symbolisms !  Expound  to  me,  now,  the 
meaning  of  that  water-lily  leaf  and  its  grand  simple 
curve,  as  it  lies  sleeping  there  in  the  back  eddy." 

"  Oh,  I  am  too  amused  to  philosophise.  The  fair 
Argemone  has  just  been  treating  me  to  her  three 
hundred  and  sixty -fifth  philippic  against  my  unoffend- 
ing beard." 

"  Why,  what  fault  can  she  find  with  such  a  grace- 
ful and  natural  ornament?" 

"Just  this,  my  dear  fellow,  that  it  is  natural  As  it 
is,  she  considers  me  only  'intelligent-looking.'  If  the 
beard  were  away,  my  face,  she  says,  would  be  'so 
refined  ! '  And,  I  suppose,  if  I  was  just  a  little  more 
effeminate  and  pale,  with  a  nice  retreating  imder-jaw 
and  a  drooping  lip,  and  a  meek,  peaking  simper,  like 
your  starved  Romish  saints,  I  should  be  '  so  spiritual ! ' 
And  if,  again,  to  complete  the  climax,  I  did  but  shave 
my  head  like  a  Chinese,  I  should  be  a  model  for  St 
Francis  himself!" 

"  But  really,  after  all,  why  make  yourself  so  singu- 
lar by  this  said  beard  1" 

•  •  I  wear  it  for  a  testimony  and  a  sign  that  a  man 
has  no  right  to  be  ashamed  of  the  mark  of  manhood. 
Oh,  that  one  or  two  of  your  Protestant  clergyman, 
who  ought  to  be  perfect  ideal  men,  would  have  the 
courage  to  get  up  into  the  pulpit  in  a  long  beard,  and 
testify  that  the  very  essential  idea  of  Protestantism  is 
the  dignity  and  divinity  of  man  as  God  made  him ! 
Our  forefathers  were  not  ashamed  of  their  beards ; 
but  now  even  the  soldier  is  only  allowed  to  keep  his 


NEW  ACTOKS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.      57 

moustache,  while  our  quill-driving  masses  shave  them- 
selves as  close  as  they  can ;  and  in  proportion  to  a 
man's  piety  he  wears  less  hair,  from  the  young  curate 
who  shaves  off  his  whiskers,  to  the  Popish  priest  who 
shaves  his  crown  ! " 

"What  do  you  say,  then,  to  cutting  off  nuns'  hair1?" 

"  I  say,  that  extremes  meet,  and  prudish  Manichse- 
ism  always  ends  in  sheer  indecency.  Those  Papists 
have  forgotten  what  woman  was  made  for,  and  there- 
fore, they  have  forgotten  that  a  woman's  hair  is  her 
glory,  for  it  was  given  to  her  for  a  covering :  as  says 
your  friend,  Paul  the  Hebrew,  who,  by-the-by,  had  as 
fine  theories  of  art  as  he  had  of  society,  if  he  had 
only  lived  fifteen  hundred  years  later,  and  had  a 
chance  of  working  them  out." 

"How  remarkably  orthodox  you  are  !"  said  Lance- 
lot, smiling. 

"How  do  you  know  that  I  am  not?  You  never 
heard  me  deny  the  old  creed.  But  what  if  an  artist 
ought  to  be  of  all  creeds  at  once  ?  My  business  is  to 
represent  the  beautiful,  and  therefore  to  accept  it 
wherever  I  find  it.  Yours  is  to  be  a  philosopher,  and 
find  the  true." 

"But  the  beautiful  must  be  truly  beautiful  to  be 
worth  anything ;  and  so  you,  too,  must  search  for  the 
true." 

"Yes;  truth  of  form,  colour,  chiaroscuro.  They 
are  worthy  to  occupy  me  a  life ;  for  they  are  eternal 
— or  at  least  that  which  they  express :  and  if  I  am  to 
get  at  the  symbolised  unseen,  it  must  be  through  the 


58  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

beauty  of  the  symlx>lising  phenomenon.  If  I,  who 
live  by  art,  for  art,  in  art,  or  you  either,  who  seem  as 
much  a  born  artist  as  myself,  am  to  have  a  religion,  it 
must  be  a  worship  of  the  fountain  of  art — of  the 

"  Spirit  of  beauty,  who  doth  consecrate 
With  his  own  hues  whate'er  he  shines  upon." 

"  As  poor  Shelley  has  it ;  and  much  peace  of  mind\ 
it  gave  him  ! "  answered  Lancelot     "  I  have  grown  I 
sick  lately  of  such  dreary  tinsel  abstractions.     When 
you  look  through  the  glitter  of  the  words,  your  '  spirit  V 
of  beauty '  simply  means  certain  shapes  and  colours 
which  please  you  in  beautiful  things  and  in  beautiful     \ 
people." 

"  Vile  nominalist !  renegade  from  the  ideal  and  all 
its  glories  ! "  said  Claude,  laughing. 

"  I  don't  care  sixpence  now  for  the  ideal !  I  want 
not  beauty,  but  some  beautiful  thing — a  woman  per- 
haps," and  he  sighed.  "But  at  least  a  person — a 
living,  loving  person — all  lovely  itself,  and  giving 
loveliness  to  all  things !  If  I  must  have  an  ideal,  let 
it  be,  for  mercy's  sake^jijrpnliiiod  onoi** 
"^  Claude  opened  his  sketch-book. 

"We  shall  get  swamped  in  these  metaphysical 
oceans,  my  dear  dreamer.  But  lo,  here  come  a  couple, 
as  near  ideals  as  any  in  these  degenerate  days — the 
two  poles  of  beauty :  the  milieu  of  which  would  be 
Venus  with  us  Pagans,  or  the  Virgin  Mary  with  the 
Catholics.  Look  at  them  !  Honoria  the  dark — sym- 
lx)lic  of  passionate  depth ;  Argemone  the  fair,  type  of 
intellectual  light !  Oh,  that  I  were  a  Zeuxis  to  unite 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.       59 

them  instead  of  having  to  paint  them  in  two  separate 
pictures,  and  split  perfection  in  half,  as  everything  is 
split  in  this  piecemeal  world  ! " 

"  You  will  have  the  honour  of  a  sitting  this  after- 
noon, I  suppose,  from  both  beauties?" 

"  I  hope  so,  for  my  own  sake.  There  is  no  path 
left  to  immortality,  or  bread  either,  now  for  us  poor 
artists  but  portrait-painting." 

"  I  envy  you  your  path,  when  it  leads  through  such 
Elysiums,"  said  Lancelot. 

"Come  here,  gentlemen  both!"  cried  Argemone 
from  the  bridge. 

"Fairly  caught !"  grumbled  Lancelot.  "You  must 
go,  at  least;  my  lameness  will  excuse  me,  I  hope." 

The  two  ladies  were  accompanied  by  Bracebridge, 
a  gazelle  which  he  had  given  Argemone,  and  a  certain 
miserable  cur  of  Honoria's  adopting,  who  plays  an 
important  part  in  this  story,  and,  therefore,  deserves 
a  little  notice.  Honoria  had  rescued  him  from  a 
watery  death  in  the  village  pond,  by  means  of  the 
colonel,  who  had  revenged  himself  for  a  pair  of  wet 
feet  by  utterly  corrupting  the  dog's  morals,  and  teach- 
ing him  every  week  to  answer  to  some  fresh  scandal- 
ous name. 

But  Lancelot  was  not  to  escape.  Instead  of  moving 
on,  as  he  had  hoped,  the  party  stood  looking  over  the 
bridge,  and  talking — he  took  for  granted,  poor  thin- 
skinned  fellow — of  him.  And  for  once  his  suspicions 
were  right ;  for  he  overheard  Argemone  say — 

"  I  wonder  how  Mr.  Smith  can  be  so  rude  as  to  sit 


60  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

there  in  my  presence  over  his  stupid  perch  !  Smoking 
those  horrid  cigars,  too !  How  selfish  those  field- 
sports  do  make  men  ! " 

"Thank  you !"  said  the  colonel,  with  a  low  bow. 
Lancelot  rose. 

"  If  a  country  girl,  now,  had  spoken  in  that  tone," 
said  he  to  himself,  "  it  would  have  been  called  at  least 

'saucy' but  Mammon's  elect  ones  may  do  anything. 

Well — here  I  come,  limping  to  my  new  tyrant's  feet, 
like  Goethe's  bear  to  Lili's." 

She  drew  him  away,  as  women  only  know  how, 
from  the  rest  of  the  party,  who  were  chatting  and 
laughing  with  Claude.  She  had  shown  off  her  fancied 
indifference  to  Lancelot  before  them,  and  now  began 
in  a  softer  voice — 

"Why  will  you  be  so  shy  and  lonely,  Mr.  Smith?" 

"Because  I  am  not  fit  for  your  society." 

"  Who  tells  you  so  ?  Why  will  you  not  become 
so?" 

Lancelot  hung  down  his  head. 

"  As  long  as  fish  and  game  are  your  only  society, 
you  will  become  more  and  more  morne  and  self- 
absorbed." 

"  Really  fish  were  the  last  things  of  which  I  was 
thinking  when  you  came.  My  whole  heart  was  filled 
with  the  beauty  of  nature,  and  nothing  else." 

There  was  an  opening  for  one  of  Argemone's  pre- 
concerted orations. 

"  Had  you  no  better  occupation,"  she  said,  gently, 
"  than  nature,  the  first  day  of  returning  to  the  open 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.  61 

air  after  so  frightful  and  dangerous  an  accident  1 
Were  there  no  thanks  due  to  One  above  ?" 

Lancelot  understood  her. 

"How  do  you  know  that  I  was  not  even  then 
showing  my  thankfulness  ?" 

"  What !  with  a  cigar  and  a  fishing-rod  1" 

"Certainly.     Why  not?" 

Argemone  really  could  not  tell  at  the  moment. 
The  answer  upset  her  scheme  entirely. 

"  Might  not  that  very  admiration  of  nature  have 
been  an  act  of  worship  ?"  continued  our  hero.  "How 
can  we  better  glorify  the  worker,  than  by  delighting 
in  his  work?" 

"Ah  !"  sighed  the  lady,  "why  trust  to  these  self- 
willed  methods,  and  neglect  the  noble  and  exquisite 
forms  which  the  Church  has  prepared  for  us  as  em- 
bodiments for  every  feeling  of  our  hearts?" 

"Every  feeling,  Miss  Lavington  ?" 

Argemone  hesitated.  She  had  made  the  good  old 
stock  assertion,  as  in  duty  bound ;  but  she  could  not 
help  recollecting  that  there  were  several  Popish  books 
of  devotion  at  that  moment  on  her  table,  which 
seemed  to  her  to  patch  a  gap  or  two  in  the  Prayer- 
book. 

"My  temple  as  yet,"  said  Lancelot,  "is  only  the 
heaven  and  the  earthy  my  church-music  I  can  hear 
all  day  long,  whenever  I  have  the  sense  to  be  silent, 
and  'hear  my  mother  sing ;'  my  priests  and  preachers 
are  every  bird  and  bee,  every  flower  and  cloud.  Am 
I  not  well  enough  furnished  ?  Do  you  want  to  reduce 


62  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

my  circular  infinite  chapel  to  an  oblong  hundred-foot 
one  1  My  sphere  harmonies  to  the  Gregorian  tones 
in  four  parts  1  My  world-wide  priesthood,  with  their 
endless  variety  of  costume,  to  one  not  over-educated 
gentleman  in  a  white  sheet?  And  my  dreams  of 
naiads  and  flower-fairies,  and  the  blue-bells  ringing 
Ciod's  praises,  as  they  do  in  'The  story  without  an 
End,'  for  the  gross  reality  of  naughty  charity  children, 
with  their  pockets  full  of  apples,  bawling  out  Hebrew 
psalms  of  which  they  neither  feel  nor  understand  a 
word?" 

Argemone  tried  to  look  very  much  shocked  at  this 
piece  of  bombast.  Lancelot  evidently  meant  it  as 
such,  but  he  eyed  her  all  the  while  as  if  there  was 
solemn  earnest  under  the  surface. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Smith  ! "  she  said,  "  how  can  you  dare 
talk  so  of  a  liturgy  compiled  by  the  wisest  and 
holiest  of  all  countries  and  ages  !  You  revile  that  of 
whose  beauty  you  are  not  qualified  to  judge  !" 

"  There  must  1x5  a  beauty  in  it  all,  or  such  as  you 
are  would  not  love  it" 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  hojxjfully,  "  that  you  would  but  try 
the  Church  system !    How  you  would  find  it  harmonise 
and   methodise   every  day,  every  thought  for  you ! 
But  I  cannot  explain  myself.     Why  not  go  to  our 
vicar  and  open  your  doubts  to%him  ?" 
"Pardon,  but  you  must  excuse  me." 
"  Why?     He  is  one  of  the  saintliest  of  men  !" 
"To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  Ixjen  to  him  already." 
"  You  do  not  mean  it!    And  what  did  lie  tell  you?" 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.      63 

"What  the  rest  of  the  world  does — hearsays." 
"  But  did  you  not  find  him  most  kind  ?" 
"  I  went  to  him  to  be  comforted  and  guided.  He 
received  me  as  a  criminal.  He  told  me  that  my  first 
duty  was  penitence  ;  that  as  long  as  I  lived  the  life  I 
did,  he  could  not  dare  to  cast  his  pearls  before  swine 
by  answering  my  doubts ;  that  I  was  in  a  state  incap- 
able of  appreciating  spiritual  truths  :  and,  therefore, 
he  had  no  right  to  tell  me  any." 
"And  what  did  he  tell  you?" 
"  Several  spiritual  lies  instead,  I  thought.  He  told 
me,  hearing  me  quote  Schiller,  to  beware  of  the  Ger- 
mans, for  they  were  all  Pantheists  at  heart.  I  asked 
him  whether  he  included  Lange  and  Bunsen,  and  it 
appeared  that  he  had  never  read  a  German  book  in 
his  life.  He  then  flew  furiously  at  Mr.  Carlyle,  and 
I  found  that  all  he  knew  of  him  was  from  a  certain 
review  in  the  Quarterly.  He  called  Boehmen  a  theo- 
sophic  Atheist.  I  should  have  burst  out  at  that,  had 
I  not  read  the  very  words  in  a  High  Church  review 
the  day  before,  and  hoped  that  he  was  not  aware  of 
the  impudent  falsehood  which  he  was  retailing.  When- 
ever I  feebly  interposed  an  objection  to  anything  he 
said  (for,  after  all,  he  talked  on),  he  told  me  to  hear 
the  Catholic  Church.  I  asked  him  which  Catholic 
Church  ?  He  said  the  English.  I  asked  him  whether 
it  was  to  l)e  the  Church  of  the  sixth  century,  or  the 
thirteenth,  or  the  seventeenth  or  the  eighteenth  1  He 
told  me  the  one  and  eternal  Church  which  belonged 
as  much  to  the  nineteenth  century  as  to  the  first.  I 


64  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

begged  to  know  whether,  then,  I  was  to  hear  the 
Church  according  to  Simeon,  or  according  to  Newman, 
or  according  to  St  Paul ;  for  they  seemed  to  me  a 
little  at  variance?  He  told  me,  austerely  enough, 
that  the  mind  of  the  Church  was  embodied  in  her 
Liturgy  and  Articles.  To  which  I  answered,  that  the 
mind  of  the  episcopal  clergy  might,  perhaps,  be ;  but, 
then,  how  happened  it  that  they  were  always  quarrel- 
ling and  calling  hard  names  about  the  sense  of  those 
-very  documents?  And  so  I  left  him,  assuring  him 
that,  living  in  the  nineteenth  century,  I  wanted  to 
hear  the  Church  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  no 
other ;  and  should  be  most  happy  to  listen  to  her,  as 
soon  as  she  had  made  up  her  mind  what  to  say." 

Argemone  was  angry  and  disappointed.  She  felt 
she  could  not  cope  with  Lancelot's  quaint  logic,  whicli, 
however  unsound,  cut  deeper  into  questions  than  she 
had  yet  looked  for  herself.  Somehow,  too,  she  was 
tongue-tied  before  him  just  when  she  wanted  to  be 
most  eloquent  in  behalf  of  her  principles ;  and  that 
fretted  her  still  more.  But  his  manner  puzzled  her 
most  of  all  First  he  would  run  on  with  his  face 
turned  away,  as  if  soliloquising  out  into  the  air,  and 
then  suddenly  look  round  at  her  with  most  fascinating 
humility ;  and,  then,  in  a  moment,  a  dark  shade  would 
pass  over  his  countenance,  and  he  would  look  like  one 
possessed,  and  his  lips  wreathe  in  a  sinister  artificial 
smile,  and  his  wild  eyes  glare  through  and  through 
her  with  such  cunning  understanding  of  himself  and 
her,  that,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  quailed  and 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.      65 

felt  frightened,  as  if  in  the  power  of  a  madman.  She 
turned  hastily  away  to  shake  off  the  spell. 

He  sprang  after  her,  almost  on  his  knees,  and 
looked  up  into  her  beautiful  face  with  an  imploring 
cry. 

"  What,  do  you,  too,  throw  me  off1?  Will  you,  too, 
treat  the  poor  wild  uneducated  sportsman  as  a  Pariah 
and  an  outcast,  because  he  is  not  ashamed  to  be  a 
man  1 — because  he  cannot  stuff  his  soul's  hunger  with 
cut-and-dried  hearsays,  but  dares  to  think  for  himself  1 
— because  he  wants  to  believe  things,  and  dare  not  be 
satisfied  with  only  believing  that  he  ought  to  believe 
them?" 

She  paused,  astonished. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  went  on,  "I  hoped  too  much !  What 
right  had  I  to  expect  that  you  would  understand  me  ? 
What  right,  still  more,  to  expect  that  you  would 
stoop,  any  more  than  the  rest  of  the  world,  to  speak 
to  me,  as  if  I  could  become  anything  better  than  the 
wild  hog  I  seem  ?  Oh  yes  ! — the  chrysalis  has  no 
butterfly  in  it,  of  course  !  Stamp  on  the  ugly  motion- 
less thing !  And  yet — you  look  so  beautiful  and 
good ! — are  all  my  dreams  to  perish,  about  the  Alru- 
nen  and  prophet-maidens,  how  they  charmed  our  old 
fighting,  hunting,  forefathers  into  purity  and  sweet 
obedience  among  their  Saxon  forests  1  Has  woman 
forgotten  her  mission — to  look  at  the  heart  and  have 
mercy,  while  cold  man  looks  at  the  act  and  condemns  ? 
Do  you,  too,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  think  no-belief 
better  than  misbelief;  and  smile  on  hypocrisy,  lip- 


66  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

assent,  practical  Atheism,  sooner  than  on  the  un- 
pardonable sin  of  making  a  mistake  1  Will  you,  like 
the  rest  of  this  wise  world,  let  a  man's  spirit  rot  asleep 
into  the  pit,  if  he  will  only  lie  quiet  and  not  disturb 
your  smooth  respectabilities ;  but  if  lie  dares,  in  wak- 
ing, to  yawn  in  an  unorthodox  manner,  knock  him 
on  the  head  at  once,  and  'break  the  bruised  reed,' 
and  '  quench  the  smoking  flax'  ?  And  yet  you  church- 
goers have  'renounced  the  world' ! " 

"  What  do  you  want,  in  Heaven's  name  1"  asked 
Argemone,  half  terrified. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  that  Here  I  am,  with 
youth,  health,  strength,  money,  every  blessing  of  life 
but  one ;  and  I  am  utterly  miserable.  I  want  some 
one  to  tell  me  what  I  want" 

"Is  it  not  that  you  want — religion?" 

"  I  see  hundreds  who  have  what  you  call  religion, 
with  whom  I  should  scorn  to  change  my  irreligion." 

"  But,  Mr.  Smith,  are  you  not — are  you  not  wicked? 
-They  tell  me  so,"  said  Argemone,  with  an  effort 
"  And  is  that  not  the  cause  of  your  disease  ?" 

Lancelot  laughed. 

"No,  fairest  prophetess,  it  is  the  di»-;i       i 
4  Why  am  I  what  I  am,  \\hrn  I  know  more  and  more 
daily  what  I  could  be  ?' — That  is  the  mystery ;  and 
my  sins  are  the  fruit,  and  not  the  root  of  it     Who 
will  explain  that?" 

Argemone  began, 

"The  Church 

"Oh,  Miss  Lavington,"nic<l  lu-,  impatiently,  "will 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.  67 

you,  too,  send  me  back  to  that  cold  abstraction?  I 
came  to  you,  however  presumptuous,  for  living,  human 
advice  to  a  living,  human  heart ;  and  will  you  pass  off 
on  me  that  Proteus-dream  the  Church,  which  in  every 
man's  mouth  has  a  different  meaning  1  In  one  book, 
meaning  a  method  of  education,  only  it  has  never 
been  carried  out ;  in  another,  a  system  of  polity, — 
only  it  has  never  been  realised ; — now  a  set  of  words 
written  in  books,  on  whose  meaning  all  are  divided ; 
now  a  body  of  men  who  are  daily  excommunicating 
each  other  as  heretics  and  apostates ;  now  a  universal 
idea;  now  the  narrowest  and  most  exclusive  of  all 
parties.  Really,  before  you  ask  me  to  hear  the 
Church,  I  have  a  right  to  ask  you  to  define  what  the 
Church  is." 

"  Our  Articles  define  it,"  said  Argemone,  drily. 

"  The  '  Visible  Church,'  at  least,  it  defines  as  '  a 
company  of  faithful  men,  in  which,'  etc.  But  how 
does  it  define  the  '  Invisible '  one  ?  And  what  does 
'faithful'  mean?  What  if  I  thought  Cromwell  and 
Pierre  Leroux  infinitely  mere  faithful  men  in  their 
way,  and  better  members  of  the  'Invisible  Church,' 
than  the  torturer-pedant  Laud,  or  the  facing  bothways 
Protestant-Manichee  Taylor?" 

It  was  lucky  for  the  life  of  young  Love  that  the 
discussion  went  no  further  :  Argemone  was  becoming 
scandalised  beyond  all  measure.  But,  happily,  the 
colonel  interposed, — 

"Look  here;  tell  me  if  you  know  for  whom  this 
sketch  is  meant?" 


68       NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

" Tregarva,  the  keeper  :  who  can  doubt?"  answered 
they  both  at  once. 

"Has  not  Mellot  succeeded  perfectly?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lancelot  "  But  what  wonder,  with 
such  a  noble  subject !  What  a  grand  benevolence  is 
enthroned  on  that  lofty  forehead  !" 

"Oh,  you  would  say  so,  indeed,"  interposed  Honoria, 
"  if  you  knew  him !  The  stories  that  I  could  tell  you 
about  him !  How  he  would  go  into  cottages,  read  to 
sick  people  by  the  hour,  dress  the  children,  cook  the 
food  for  them,  as  tenderly  as  any  woman !  I  found 
out,  last  winter,  if  you  will  believe  it,  that  he  lived 
on  bread  and  water,  to  give  out  of  his  own  wages — 
which  are  barely  twelve  shillings  a  week — five  shillings 
a  week  for  more  than  two  months  to  a  i>oor  labouring 
man,  to  prevent  his  going  to  the  workhouse,  and  being 
parted  from  his  wife  and  children." 

"  Noble,  indeed  ! "  said  Lancelot  "  I  do  not 
wonder  now  at  the  effect  his  conversation  just  now 
had  on  me." 

"Has  he  been  talking  to  you?"  said  Honoria, 
eagerly.  "  He  seldom  speaks  to  any  one." 

"  He  has  to  me  ;  and  so  well,  that  were  I  sure  that 
the  poor  were  as  ill  off  as  he  says,  and  that  I  had  the 
power  of  altering  the  system  a  hair,  I  could  find  it  in 
my  heart  to  excuse  all  political  grievance -mongers, 
and  turn  on6  myself." 

Claude  Mellot  clapped  his  white  woman-like  hands. 

"  BravoTbravoT^O  wondertul  conversion !  Lance- 
lot has  at  last  discovered  that,  besides  the  '  glorious 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.  69 

Past,'  there  is  a  Present  worthy  of  his  sublime  notice  ! 
We  may  now  hope,  in  time,  that  he  will  discover  the 
existence  of  a  Future ! " 

"But,  Mr.  Mellot,"  said  Honoria,  "why  have  you 
been  so  unfaithful  to  your  original  1  why  have  you, 
like  all  artists,  been  trying  to  soften  and  refine  on 
your  model  ?" 

"  Because,  my  dear  lady,  we  are  bound  to  see  every- 
thing in  its  ideal — not  as  it  is,  but  as  it  ought  to  be, 
and  will  be,  when  the  vices  of  this  pitiful  civilised 
world  are  exploded,  and  sanitary  reform,  and  a  variety 
of  occupation,  and  harmonious  education,  let  each  man 
fulfil  in  body  and  soul  the  ideal  which  God  embodied 
in  him." 

"  Fourierist ! "  cried  Lancelot,  laughing.  "  But 
surely  you  never  saw  a  face  which  had  lost  by  wear 
less  of  the  divine  image  ?  How  thoroughly  it  exempli- 
fies your  great  law  of  Protestant  art,  that  '  the  Ideal 
is  best  manifested4a  the  Peculiar.'  How  classic,  how 
independent  of  clime  or  race,  is  its  bland,  majestic 
self-possession  !  how  thoroughly  Norse  its  massive 
squareness ! " 

"  And  yet,  as  a  Cornishman,  he  should  be  no  Norse- 
man." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon !  Like  all  noble  races,  the 
Cornish  owe  their  nobleness  to  the  impurity  of  their 
blood — to  its  perpetual  loans  from  foreign  veins.  See 
how  the  serpentine  curve  of  his  nose,  his  long  nostril, 
and  protruding,  sharp-cut  lips,  mark  his  share  of 
Phoenician  or  Jewish  blood !  how  Norse,  again,  that 


70  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

dome-shaped  forehead  !  how  Celtic  those  dark  curls, 
that  restless  grey  eye,  with  its  '  swinden  blicken,'  like 
Von  Troneg  Hagen's  in  the  Nitbdungen  Lied  /" 

He  turned  :  Honoria  was  devouring  his  words. 
He  saw  it,  for  he  was  in  love,  and  young  love  makes 
man's  senses  as  keen  as  woman's. 

"Look  !  look  at  him  now  !"  said  Claude,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  How  he  sits,  with  his  hands  on  his  knees, 
the  enormous  size  of  his  limbs  quite  concealed  by  the 
careless  grace,  with  his  Egyptian  face,  like  some  dumb 
granite  Memnon ! " 

"Only  waiting,"  said  Lancelot,  "for  the  day-star 
to  arise  on  him  and  awake  him  into  voice." 

He  looked  at  Honoria  as  he  spoke.  She  blushed 
angrily ;  and  yet  a  sort  of  sympathy  arose  from  that 
moment  between  Lancelot  and  herself. 

Our  hero  feared  he  had  gone  too  far,  and  tried  to 
turn  the  subject  off. 

The  smooth  mill-head  was  alive  with  rising  trout 
"  What  a  huge  fish  leapt  then ! "  said  Lancelot,  care- 
lessly ;  <:and  close  to  the  bridge,  too  !" 

Honoria  looked  round,  and  uttered  a  piercing 
scream. 

my  dog !  my  dog  !  Mops  is  in  the  river ! 
That  horrid  gazelle  has  butted  him  in,  and  he'll  be 
drowned ! " 

!  it  was  too  true.     There,  a  yard  above  the 
'one  open  hatchway,  through  which  the  whole  force 
of  the  stream  was  rushing,  was  the  unhappy  Mops, 
alias  Scratch,  alia*  Dirty  Dick,  alias  Jack  Sheppard, 


NEW  ACTOES,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.  71 

paddling,  and  sneezing,  and  winking,  his  little  bald 
muzzle  turned  piteously  upward  to  the  sky. 

"  He  will  be  drowned  ! "  quoth  the  colonel. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it ;  and  so  Mops  thought, 
as,  shivering  and  whining,  he  plied  every  leg,  while 
the  glassy  current  dragged  him  back  and  back,  and 
Honoria  sobbed  like  a  child. 

The  colonel  lay  down  on  the  bridge,  and  caught  at 
him  :  his  arm  was  a  foot  too  short.  In  a  moment  the 
huge  form  of  Tregarva  plunged  solemnly  into  the 
water,  with  a  splash  like  seven  salmon,  and  Mops  was 
jerked  out  over  the  colonel's  head  high  and  dry  on  to 
the  bridge. 

"  You'll  be  drowned,  at  least !"  shouted  the  colonel,  \ 
with  an  oath  of  Uncle  Toby's  own. 

Tregarva  saw  his  danger,  made  one  desperate  bound 
upward,  and  missed  the  bridge.  The  colonel  caught 
at  him,  tore  off  a  piece  of  his  collar — the  calm,  solemn 
face  of  the  keeper  flashed  past  beneath  him,  and  dis- 
appeared through  the  roaring  gate. 

They  rushed  to  the  other  side  of  the  bridge — caught 
one  glimpse  of  a  dark  body  fleeting  and  roaring  down 
the  foam-way.  The  colonel  leapt  the  bridge-rail  like 
a  deer,  rushed  out  along  the  buck-stage,  tore  off  his 
coat,  and  sprung  headlong  into  the  boiling  pool,  "re- 
joicing in  his  might,"  as  old  Homer  would  say. 

Lancelot,  forgetting  his  crutches,  was  dashing  after 
him,  when  he  felt  a  soft  hand  clutching  at  his  arm. 

"Lancelot!  Mr.  Smith!"  cried  Argemone.  "You 
shall  not  go  !  You  are  too  ill — weak " 


72  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

"  A  fellow-creature's  life  ! " 

"  What  is  his  life  to  yours  ?"  she  cried,  in  a  tone 
of  deep  passion.  And  then,  imperiously,  "  Stay  here, 
I  command  you ! " 

The  magnetic  touch  of  her  hand  thrilled  through 
his  whole  frame.  She  had  called  him  Lancelot !  He 
shrank  down,  and  stood  spell-bound. 

"Good  heavens  !"  she  cried  ;  "look  at  my  sister!" 

Out  on  the  extremity  of  the  buck-stage  (how  she 
got  there  neither  they  nor  she  ever  knew)  crouched 
Honoria,  her  face  idiotic  with  terror,  while  she  stared 
with  bursting  eyes  into  the  foam.  A  shriek  of  dis- 
appointment rose  from  her  lips,  as  in  a  moment  the 
colonel's  weather-worn  head  reappeared  above,  look- 
ing for  all  the  world  like  an  old  grey  shiny-painted 
seal. 

"  Poof !  tally-ho  !  Poof !  poof  !  Heave  me  a  piece 
of  wood,  Lancelot,  my  boy !"  And  he  disappeared 
again. 

They  looked  round,  there  was  not  a  loose  bit  near. 
Claude  ran  off  towards  the  house.  Lancelot,  desperate, 
seized  the  bridge-rail,  tore  it  off  by  sheer  strength, 
and  hurled  it  far  into  the  pool  Argemono  saw  it, 
and  remembered  it,  like  a  true  woman.  Ay,  be  as 
Manichajan-sentimental  as  you  will,  fair  ladies,  physi- 
cal prowess,  that  Eden-right  of  manhood,  is  sure  to 
tell  upon  your  hearts  ! 

Again  the  colonel's  grizzled  head  reappeared, — and, 
oh  joy  !  beneath  it  a  draggled  knot  of  black  curls.  In 
another  instant  ho  had  hold  of  the  rail,  and  quietly 


NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE.      73 

floating  down  to  the  shallow,  dragged  the  lifeless  giant 
high  and  dry  on  a  patch  of  gravel. 

Honoria  never  spoke.  She  rose,  walked  quietly 
back  along  the  beam,  passed  Argemone  and  Lancelot 
without  seeing  them,  and  firmly  but  hurriedly  led  the 
way  round  the  pool-side. 

Before  they  arrived  at  the  bank,  the  colonel  had 
carried  Tregarva  to  it.  Lancelot  and  two  or  three 
workmen,  whom  his  cries  had  attracted,  lifted  the 
body  on  to  the  meadow. 

Honoria  knelt  quietly  down  on  the  grass,  and 
watched,  silent  and  motionless,  the  dead  face,  with 
her  wide,  awe-struck  eyes. 

"God  bless  her  for  a  kind  soul!"  whispered  the 
wan  weather-beaten  field  drudges,  as  they  crowded 
round  the  body. 

"  Get  out  of  the  way,  my  men!"  quoth  the  colonel 
"  Too  many  cooks  spoil  the  broth."  And  he  packed 
off  one  here  and  another  there  for  necessaries,  and 
commenced  trying  every  restorative  means  with  the 
ready  coolness  of  a  practised  surgeon ;  while  Lancelot, 
whom  he  ordered  about  like  a  baby,  gulped  down  a 
great  choking  lump  of  envy,  and  then  tasted  the  rich 
delight  of  forgetting  himself  in  admiring  obedience  to 
a  real  superior. 

But  there  Tregarva  lay  lifeless,  with  folded  hands, 
and  a  quiet  satisfied  smile,  while  Honoria  watched 
and  watched  with  parted  lips,  unconscious  of  the 
presence  of  every  one. 

Five  minutes  ! — ten  ! 


74      NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE. 

"Carry  him  to  the  house,"  said  the  colonel,  in  a 
despairing  tone,  after  another  attempt 

"He  moves!"  "No!"  "He  does!"  "  He  breathes !" 
"  Look  at  his  eyelids  !" 

Slowly  his  eyes  opened. 

"Where  ami]  All  gone?  Sweet  dreams — blessed 
dreams!" 

His  eye  met  Honoria's.  One  big  deep  sigh  swelled 
to  his  lips  and  burst  She  seemed  to  recollect  herself, 
rose,  passed  her  arm  through  Argemone's,  and  walked 
slowly  away. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

AN  "INGLORIOUS  MILTON." 

ARGEMONE,  sweet  prude,  thought  herself  bound  to 
read  Honoria  a  lecture  that  night,  on  her  reckless 
exhibition  of  feeling ;  but  it  profited  little.  The  most 
consummate  cunning  could  not  have  baffled  Argemone's 
suspicions  more  completely  than  her  sister's  utter  sim- 
plicity. She  cried  just  as  bitterly  about  Mops's  danger 
as  about  the  keeper's,  and  then  laughed  heartily  at 
Argemone's  solemnity;  till  at  last,  when  pushed  a 
little  too  hard,  she  broke  out  into  something  very  like 
a  passion,  and  told  her  sister,  bitterly  enough,  that 
"  she  was  not  accustomed  to  see  men  drowned  every 
day,  and  begged  to  hear  no  more  about  the  subject." 
Whereat  Argemone  prudently  held  her  tongue,  know- 
ing that  under  all  Honoria's  tenderness  lay  a  volcano 
of  passionate  determination,  which  was  generally  kept 
down  by  her  affections,  but  was  just  as  likely  to  be 
maddened  by  them.  And  so  this  conversation  only 
went  to  increase  the  unconscious  estrangement  between 
them,  though  they  continued,  as  sisters  will  do,  to 
lavish  upon  each  other  the  most  extravagant  protesta- 
tions of  affection — vowing  to  live  and  die  only  for 


76  AN  "  INGLORIOUS  MILTON." 

each  other — and  believing  honestly,  sweet  souls,  that 
they  felt  all  they  said ;  till  real  imperious  Love  came 
in,  in  one  case  of  the  two  at  least,  shouldering  all  other 
affections  right  and  left ;  and  then  the  two  beauties 
discovered,  as  others  do,  that  it  is  not  so  possible  or 
reasonable  as  they  thought  for  a  woman  to  sacrifice 
herself  and  her  lover  for  the  sake  of  her  sister  or  her 
friend. 

Next  morning  Lancelot  and  the  colonel  started  out 
to  Tregarva's  cottage,  on  a  mission  of  inquiry.  They 
found  the  giant  propped  up  in  bed  with  pillows,  his 
magnificent  features  looking  in  their  paleness  more 
than  ever  like  a  granite  Memnon.  Before  him  lay 
an  open  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  a  drawer  filled 
with  feathers  and  furs,  which  he  was  busily  manufac- 
turing into  trout  flies,  reading  as  he  worked.  The 
room  was  filled  with  nets,  guns,  and  keepers'  tackle, 
while  a  well-filled  shelf  of  books  hung  by  the  wall. 

"Excuse  my  rising,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  his 
slow,  staid  voice,  "but  I  am  very  weak,  in  spito  of 
the  Lord's  goodness  to  me.  You  are  very  kind  to 
think  of  coming  to  my  poor  cottage." 

"  Well,  my  man,"  said  the  colonel,  "  and  how  are 
you  after  your  cold  bath  1  You  are  the  heaviest  fish 
I  ever  landed  ! " 

"  Pretty  well,  thank  God,  and  you,  sir.  I  am  in 
your  debt,  sir,  for  the  dear  life.  How  shall  I  ever 
repay  you?" 

"  Repay,  my  good  fellow  ?  You  would  have  done 
as  much  for  me." 


AN  "  INGLORIOUS  MILTON."  77 

"  May  be ;  but  you  did  not  think  of  that  when  you 
jumped  in;  and  no  more  must  I  in  thanking  you. 
God  knows  how  a  poor  miner's  son  will  ever  reward 
you ;  but  the  mouse  repaid  the  lion,  says  the  story, 
and,  at  all  events,  I  can  pray  for  you.  By  the  bye, 
gentlemen,  I  hope  you  have  brought  up  some  trolling- 
tackle  V 

"We  came  up  to  see  you,  and  not  to  fish,"  said 
Lancelot,  charmed  with  the  stately  courtesy  of  the 
man. 

"  Many  thanks,  gentlemen ;  but  old  Harry  Verney 
was  in  here  just  now,  and  had  seen  a  great  jack  strike, 
at  the  tail  of  the  lower  reeds.  With  this  fresh  wind, 
he  will  run  till  noon ;  and  you  are  sure  of  him  with  a 
dace.  After  that,  he  will  not  be  up  again  on  the 
shallows  till  sunset.  He  works  the  works  of  darkness, 
and  comes  not  to  the  light,  because  his  deeds  are  evil" 

Lancelot  laughed.  "  He  does  but  follow  his  kind, 
poor  fellow." 

"  No  doubt,  sir,  no  doubt ;  all  the  Lord's  works  are 
good :  but  it  is  a  wonder  why  He  should  have  made 
wasps,  now,  and  blights,  and  vermin,  and  jack,  and 
such  evil-featured  things,  that  carry  spite  and  cruelty 
in  their  very  faces — a  great  wonder.  Do  you  think, 
sir,  all  those  creatures  were  in  the  Garden  of  Eden?" 

"  You  are  getting  too  deep  for  me,"  said  Lancelot. 
"But  why  trouble  your  head  about  fishing1?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  preaching  to  you,  sir.  I'm 
sure  I  forgot  myself.  If  you  will  let  me,  I'll  get  up 
and  get  you  a  couple  of  bait  from  the  stew.  You'll 


78  AN  "  INGLORIOUS  MILTON." 

do  us  keepers  a  kindness,  and  prevent  sin,  sir,  if  you'll 
catch  him.  The  squire  will  swear  sadly — the  Lord 
forgive  him — if  he  hears  of  a  pike  in  the  trout-runs. 
I'll  get  up,  if  I  may  trouble  you  to  go  into  the  next 
room  a  minute." 

"Lie  still,  for  Heaven's  sake.  Why  bother  your 
head  about  pike  now?" 

"  It  is  my  business,  sir,  and  I  am  paid  for  it,  and  I 
must  do  it  thoroughly; — and  abide  in  the  calling 
wherein  I  am  called,"  he  added,  in  a  sadder  tone. 

"  You  seem  to  be  fond  enough  of  it,  and  to  know 
enough  about  it,  at  all  events,"  said  the  colonel,  "  tying 
flies  here  on  a  sick-bed" 

"  As  for  being  fond  of  it,  sir — those  creatures  of 
the  water  teach  a  man  many  lessons ;  and  when  I  tie 
flies,  I  earn  books." 

"How  then?"  ^ 

"  I  send  my  flies  all  over  the  country,  sir,  to  Salis- 
bury and  Hungerford,  and  up  to  Winchester,  even ; 
and  the  money  buys  me  many  a  wise  book — all  my 
delight  is  in  reading ;  perhaps  so  much  the  worse  for 
me." 

"So  much  the  better,  say,"  answered  Lancelot, 
warmly.  "I'll  give  you  an  order  for  a  couple  of 
pounds'  worth  of  flies  at  once." 

"  The  Lord  reward  you,  sir,"  answered  the  giant 

"  And  you  shall  make  mo  the  same  quantity,"  said 
the  colonel  "You  can  make  salmon-flies?" 

"  I  made  a  lot  by  pattern  for  an  Irish  gent,  sir." 

"  Well,     then,    we'll    send     you    some    Norway 


AN  "  INGLOKIOUS  MILTON."  79 

patterns,  and  some  golden  pheasant  and  parrot 
feathers.  We're  going  to  Norway  this  summer,  you 
know,  Lancelot — 

Tregarva  looked  up  with  a  quaint,  solemn  hesitation. 

"  If  you  please,  gentlemen,  you'll  forgive  a  man's 
conscience." 

"Well?" 

"  But  I'd  not  like  to  be  a  party  to  the  making  of 
Norway  flies." 

"  Here's  a  Protectionist,  with  a  vengeance ! " 
laughed  the  colonel.  "Do  you  want  to  keep  all  us 
fishermen  in  England?  eh?  to  fee  English  keepers?" 

"No,  sir.  There's  pretty  fishing  in  Norway,  I 
hear,  and  poor  folk  that  want  money  more  than  we 
keepers.  God  knows  we  get  too  much — we  that  hang 
about  great  houses  and  serve  great  folks'  pleasure — 
you  toss  the  money  down  our  throats,  without  our 
deserving  it ;  and  we  spend  it  as  we  get  it — a  deal  too 
fast — while  hard-working  labourers  are  starving." 

"  And  yet  you  would  keep  us  in  England  ?" 

"Would  God  I  could!" 

"Why  then,  my  good  fellow?"  asked  Lancelot, 
who  was  getting  intensely  interested  with  the  calm, 
self-possessed  earnestness  of  the  man,  and  longed  to 
draw  him  out. 

The  colonel  yawned. 

"Well,  I'll  go  and  get  myself  a  couple  of  bait. 
Don't  you  stir,  my  good  parson-keeper.  Down  charge, 
I  say !  Odd  if  I  don't  find  a  bait-net,  and  a  rod  for 
myself,  under  the  verandah." 


80  AN  "  INGLORIOUS  MILTON." 

"You  will,  colonel  I  remember,  now,  I  set  it 
there  last  morning ;  but  the  water  washed  many 
things  out  of  my  brains,  and  some  things  into  them — 
and  I  forgot  it  like  a  goose." 

"Well,  good-bye,  and  lie  still  I  know  what  a 
drowning  is,  and  more  than  one.  A  day  and  a  night 
have  I  been  in  the  deep,  like  the  man  in  the  good 
book ;  and  bed  is  the  best  of  medicine  for  a  ducking ;" 
and  the  colonel  shook  him  kindly  by  the  hand  and 
disappeared. 

Lancelot  sat  down  by  the  keeper's  bed. 

"  You'll  get  those  fish-hooks  into  your  trousers,  sir ; 
and  this  is  a  poor  place  to  sit  down  in." 

"  I  want  you  to  say  your  say  out,  friend,  fish-hooks 
or  none." 

The  keeper  looked  warily  at  the  door,  and  when 
the  colonel  had  passed  the  window,  balancing  the 
trolling -rod  on  his  chin,  and  whistling  merrily,  he 
began, — 

'"A  day  and  a  night  have  I  been  in  the  deep  !'— 
and  brought  back  no  more  from  it!    And  yet  the 
Psalms  say  how  they  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships 
see  the  works  of  the  Lord  ! — If  the  Lord  has  opened 
their  eyes  to  see  them,  that  must  mean — 

Lancelot  waited. 

••  What  a  gallant  gentleman  that  is,  and  a  valiant 
man  of  war,  I'll  warrant, — and  to  have  seen  all  the 
wonders  ho  has,  and  yet  to  be  wasting  his  span  of  life 
like  that!" 

Lancelot's  heart  smote  him. 


AN  "INGLORIOUS  MILTON."  81 

"One  would  think,  sir, You'll  pardon  me  for 

speaking  out."  And  the  noble  face  worked,  as  he 
murmured  to  himself,  "When  ye  are  brought  before 
kings  and  princes  for  my  name's  sake. — I  dare  not 
hold  my  tongue,  sir.  I  am  as  one  risen  from  the 
dead," — and  his  face  flashed  up  into  sudden  enthusiasm 
— "and  woe  to  me  if  I  speak  not.  Oh,  why,  why 
are  you  gentlemen  running  off  to  Norway,  and  foreign 
parts,  whither  God  has  not  called  you !  Are  there 
no  graves  in  Egypt,  that  you  must  go  out  to  die  in 
the  wilderness1?" 

Lancelot,  quite  unaccustomed  to  the  language  of 
the  Dissenting  poor,  felt  keenly  the  bad  taste  of  the 
allusion. 
— '  "What  can  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  if  I  cannot  speak  plainly;  but 
are  there  not  temptations  enough  here  in  England 
that  you  must  go  to  waste  all  your  gifts,  your  scholar- 
ship, and  your  rank,  far  away  there  out  of  the  sound 
of  a  church -going  bell?  I  don't  deny  it's  a  great 
temptation.  I  have  read  of  Norway  wonders  in  a  \ 
book  of  one  Miss  Martineau,  with  a  strange  name." 

"  Feats  on^the  FiordT""  >       . 

"That's  it,  sir!     Her  "books  are  grand  books  to  stf/nfag, 
one  a-thinking ;  but  shg^don't  seem  to  see  the  Lord 
in  all  things,  does  she,  sir?" 

Lancelot  parried  the  question. 

"You  are  wandering  a  little  from  the  point." 

"  So  I  am,  and  thank  you  for  the  rebuke.     There's 
where  I  find  you  scholars  have  the  advantage  of  us 
G  Y. 


82  AN  "  INGLORIOUS  MILTON." 

poor  fellows,  who  pick  up  knowledge  as  we  can. 
Your  book-learnmgTnSkes  you  ^tick  to  the  point  so 
much  better.  You  are  taught  howJa^think  After 
all — God  forgive  me  if  I'm  wrong !  but  I  sometimes 
think  that  there  must  be  more  good  in  that  human 
wisdom,  and  philosophy  falsely  so  called,  than  we 
_Wesleyjms  hold.  Oh,  sir,  what  a  blessing  is  a  good 
education  !  What  you  gentlemen  might  do  with  it,  if 
you  did  but  see  your  own  power !  Are  there  no  fish 
in  England,  sir,  to  be  caught?  precious  fish,  with 
immortal  souls  1  And  is  there  not  One  who  has  said, 
'Come  with  me,  and  I  will  make  you  fishers  of 
men?"1 

"•Would  you  have  us  all  turn  parsons?" 

"  Is  no  one  to  do  God's  work  except  the  parson, 
sir  ?  Oh,  the  game  that  you  rich  folks  have  in  your 
hands,  if  you  would  but  play  it!  Such  a  man  as 
Colonel  Bracebridge,  now,  with  the  tongue  of  the  ser- 
pent, who  can  charm  any  living  soul  he  likes  to  his 
will,  as  a  stoat  charms  a  rabbit  Or  you,  sir,  with 
your  tongue : — you  have  charmed  one  precious  creature 
already.  I  can  see  it :  though  neither  of  you  know 
it,  yet  I  know  it" 

Lancelot  started,  and  blushed  crimson. 

"Oh,  that  I  had  your  tongue,  sir!"  And  the 
keeper  blushed  crimson,  too,  and  went  on  hastily, — 

"But  why  could  you  not  charm  all  alike  !     Do  not 

theiwor  want  you  as  well  as  the  rich?" 
r^  *  ••* 

/     "  What  can  I  do  for  the  poor,  my  good  fellow  ? 
/And  what  do  they  want?     Have  they  not  houses, 


AN  "  INGLORIOUS  MILTON."  83 

work,  a  church,  and  schools, — and  poor-rates  to  fall 
back  on  r 

The  keeper  smiled  sadly. 

"  To  fall  back  on,  indeed  !  and  down  on,  too.  At 
all  events,  you  rich  might  help  to  make  Christians  of 
them,  and  men  of  them.  For  I'm  beginning  to  fancy 
strangely,  in  spite  of  all  the  preachers. -gay,  that,  before 
eyer^  you  canjnake  them  Christians,  you  must  make 
them  men  and  women." 

"Are  ttiey~not  so  already ?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  go  and  see  !  How  can  a  man  be  a  man  in 
those  crowded  styes,  sleeping  packed  together  like  Irish 
pigs  in  a  steamer,  never  out  of  the  fear  of  want,  never 
knowing  any  higher  amusement  than  the_beershop  1 
Those  old  Greeks  and  Romans,  as  I  read,  were  more 
like  men  than  half  our  English  labourers.  Go  and 
see  !  Ask  that  sweet  heavenly  angel,  Miss  Honoria," 
— and  the  keeper  again  blushed, — "  And  she,  too,  will 
tell  you.  I  think  sometimes,  if  she  had  been  born  and 
bred  like  her  father's  tenants'  daughters,  to  sleep  where 
they  sleep,  and  hear  the  talk  they  hear,  and  see  the 
things  they  see,  what  would  she  have  been  now  ?  We 
mustn't  think  of  it."  And  the  keeper  turnedjiis  head 
away,  and  fairly  burst  into  tears. 

Lancelot  was  moved 

"  Are  the  poor  very  immoral,  thenj" 

"  You  ask  the  rector,  sir,  how  many  children  here- 
abouts are  born  within  six  months  of  the  wedding-day. 
None  of  them  marry,  sir,  till  the  devil  forces  them. 
There's  no  sadder  sight  than  a  labourer's  wedding 


84  AN  "  INGLORIOUS  MILTON." 

now -a- days.  You  never  see  the  parents  come  with 
them.  They  just  get  another  couple,  that  are  keeping 
company,  like  themselves,  and  come  sneaking  into 
church,  looking  all  over  as  if  they  were  ashamed  of 
it — and  well  they  may  be  ! " 

"  Is  it  possible  ?" 

"  I  say,  sir,  that  God  makes  you  gentlemen,  gentle- 
men, that  you  may  see  into  these  things.  You  give 
away  your  charities  kindly  enough,  but  you  don't 
know  the  folks  you  give  to.  If  a  few  of  you  would 
but  be  like  the  blessed  Lord,  and  stoop  to  go  out  of 
the  road,  just  behind  the  hedge,  for  once,  among  the 
publicans  and  harlots  !  Were  you  ever  at  a  country 
fair,  sir  ?  Though  I  suppose  I  am  rude  for  fancying 
that  you  could  demean  yourself  to  such  company." 

"I  should  not  think  it  demeaning  myself,"  said 
Lancelot,  smiling ;  "  but  I  never  was  at  one,  and  I 
should  like  for  once  to  see  the  real  manners  of  the 
poor." 

"  I'm  no  haunter  of  such  places  myself,  God  knows ; 
but — I  see  you're  in  earnest  now — will  you  come  with 
me,  sir, — for  once?  for  God's  sake,  and  the  poor's 
sake?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted." 

"  Not  after  you've  been  there,  I  am  afraid." 

"Well,  it's  a  bargain  when  you  are  recovered. 
And,  in  the  meantime,  the  squire's  orders  are,  that 
you  lie  by  for  a  few  days  to  rest ;  and  Miss  Honoria's, 
too ;  and  she  has  sent  you  down  some  wine." 

"She  thought  of  me,  did  she?"    And  the  still  sad 


AN  "  INGLOKIOUS  MILTON."  85 

face  blazed  out  radiant  with  pleasure,  and  then  col- 
lapsed as  suddenly  into  deep  melancholy. 

Lancelot  saw  it,  but  said  nothing;  and  shaking 
him  heartily  by  the  hand,  had  his  shake  returned  by 
an  iron  grasp,  and  slipped  silently  out  of  the  cottage. 

The  keeper  lay  still,  gazing  on  vacancy.  Once  he 
murmured  to  himself, — 

"Through  strange  ways — strange  ways — and  though 
he  let  them  wander  out  of  the  road  in  the  wilderness ; 
— we  know  how  that  goes  on " 

And  then  he  fell  into  a  mixed  meditation — perhaps 
into  a  prayer. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN   NOTHING. 

AT  last,  after  Lancelot  had  waited  long  in  vain,  came 
his  cousin's  answer  to  the  letter  which  I  gave  in  my 
second  chapter. 

"  You  are  not  fair  to  me,  good  cousin  .  .  .  but  I 
have  given  up  expecting  fairness  from  Protestants. 
I  do  not  say  that  the  front  and  the  back  of  my  head 
have  different  makers,  any  more  than  that  doves  and 
vipers  have  .  .  .  and  yet  I  kill  the  viper  when  I  meet 
him  .  .  .  and  so  do  you.  .  .  .  And  yet,  are  we  not 
taught  that  our  animal  nature  is  throughout  equally 
viperous?  .  .  .  The  Catholic  Church,  at  least,  so 
teaches.  .  .  .  She  believes  in  the  corruption  of  human 
nature.  She  believes  in  the  literal  meaning  of  Scrip- 
ture. She  has  no  wish  to  paraphrase  away  St  Paul's 
awful  words,  that '  in  his  flesh  dwelleth  no  good  thing,' 
by  the  unscientific  euphemisms  of  'fallen  nature' or 
'corrupt  humanity.'  The  lx>asted  discovery  of  phreno- 
logists, that  thought,  feeling,  and  passion  reside  in 
this  material  brain  and  nerves  of  ours,  has  ages  ago 
been  anticipated  by  her  simple  faith  in  the  letter  of 
Scripture  ;  a  faith  which  puts  to  shame  the  irreverent 


A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING.  87 

vagueness  and  fantastic  private  interpretations  of  those 
who  make  an  idol  of  that  very  letter  which  they  dare 
not  take  literally,  because  it  makes  against  their  self- 
wiled  theories.  .  .  . 

"  And  so  you  call  me  douce  and  meek  ?  .  .  .  You 
should  remember  what  I  once  was,  Lancelot  ...  I, 
at  least,  have  not  forgotten  ...  I  have  not  forgotten 
how  that  very  animal  nature,  on  the  possession  of 
which  you  seem  to  pride  yourself,  was  in  me  only  the 
parent  of  remorse.  ...  I  know  it  too  well  not  to  hate 
and  fear  it.  Why  do  you  reproach  me,  if  I  try  to 
abjure  it,  and  cast  away  the  burden  which  I  am  too 
weak  to  bear  1  I  am  weak — Would  you  have  me  say 
that  I  am  strong  1  Would  you  have  me  try  to  be  a 
Prometheus,  while  I  am  longing  to  be  once  more  an 
infant  on  a  mother's  breast?  Let  me  alone  ...  I 
am  a  weary  child,  who  knows  nothing,  can  do  nothing, 
except  lose  its  way  in  arguings  and  reasonings,  and 
'find  no  end,  in  wandering  mazes  lost.'  Will  you  re- 
proach me,  because  when  I  see  a  soft  cradle  lying  open 
for  me  .  .  .  with  a  Virgin  Mother's  face  smiling  down 
all  woman's  love  about  it  ...  I  long  to  crawl  into  it, 
and  sleep  awhile  1  I  want  loving,  indulgent  sympathy 
...  I  want  detailed,  explicit  guidance  .  .  .  Have 
you,  then,  found  so  much  of  them  in  our  former  creed, 
that  you  forbid  me  to  go  to  seek  them  elsewhere,  in 
the  Church  which  not  only  professes  them  as  an 
organised  system,  but  practises  them  ...  as  you 
would  find  in  your  first  half-hour's  talk  with  one  of 
Her  priests  .  .  .  true  priests  .  .  .  who  know  the 


88  A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING. 

heart  of  man,  and  pity,  and  console,  and  bear  for 
their  flock  the  burdens  which  they  cannot  bear  them- 
selves? You  ask  me  who  will  teach  a  fast  young 
man  1  ...  I  answer,  the  Jesuit  Ay,  start  and  sneer, 
at  that  delicate  woman  -like  tenderness,  that  subtle 
instinctive  sympathy,  which  you  have  never  felt  .  .  . 
which  is  as  new  to  me,  alas,  as  it  would  be  to  you ! 
For  if  there  be  none  now-a-days  to  teach  such  as  you, 
who  is  there  who  will  teach  such  as  me?  Do  not 
fancy  that  I  have  not  craved  and  searched  for  teachers 
...  I  went  to  one  party  long  ago,  and  they  com- 
manded me,  as  the  price  of  their  sympathy,  even  of 
anything  but  their  denunciations,  to  ignore,  if  not  to 
abjure,  all  the  very  points  on  which  I  came  for  light 
— my  love  for  the  Beautiful  and  the  Symbolic — my 
desire  to  consecrate  and  christianise  it — my  longing 
for  a  human  voice  to  tell  me  with  authority  that  I 
was  forgiven — my  desire  to  find  some  practical  and 
palpable  communion  between  myself  and  the  saints  of 
old.  They  told  me  to  cast  away,  as  an  accursed  chaos, 
a  thousand  years  of  Christian  history,  and  believe  that 
the  devil  had  been  for  ages  .  .  .  just  the  ages  I 
thought  noblest,  most  faithful,  most  interpenetrated 
with  the  thought  of  God  .  .  .  triumphant  over  that 
church  with  which  Ho  had  promised  to  be  till  the  end 
of  the  world.  No  ...  by  the  bye,  they  made  two 
exceptions — of  their  own  choosing.  One  in  favour  of 
the  Albigenses  .  .  .  who  seemed  to  me,  from  the 
original  documents,  to  have  been  very  profligate 
Infidels,  of  whom  the  world  was  well  rid  ...  and 


A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING.  89 

the  Piedmontese  .  .  .  poor,  simple,  ill-used  folk 
enough,  but  who  certainly  cannot  be  said  to  have  exer- 
cised much  influence  on  the  destinies  of  mankind  .  .  . 
and  all  the  rest  was  chaos  and  the  pit.  There  never 
had  been,  never  would  be,  a  kingdom  of  God  on  earth, 
but  only  a  few  scattered  individuals,  each  selfishly 
intent  on  the  salvation  of  his  own  soul — without 
organisation,  without  unity,  without  common  purpose, 
without  even  a  masonic  sign  whereby  to  know  one 
another  when  they  chanced  to  meet  .  .  .  except 
Shibboleths  which  the  hypocrite  could  ape,  and  virtues 
which  the  heathen  have  performed  .  .  .  Would  you 
have  had  me  accept  such  a  '  Philosophy  of  History  V 

"  And  then  I  went  to  another  school  ...  or  rather 
wandered  up  and  down  between  those  whom  I  have 
just  described,  and  those  who  boast  on  their  side  pre- 
scriptive right,  and  apostolic  succession  .  .  .  and  I 
found  that  their  ancient  charter  went  back — just  three 
hundred  years  .  .  .  and  there  derived  its  transmitted 
virtue,  it  seemed  to  me,  by  something  very  like  obtain- 
ing goods  on  false  pretences,  from  the  very  church 
which  it  now  anathematises.  Disheartened,  but  not 
hopeless,  I  asked  how  it  was  that  the  priesthood, 
whose  hands  bestowed  the  grace  of  ordination,  could 
not  withdraw  it  ...  whether,  at  least,  the  schismatic 
did  not  forfeit  it  by  the  very  act  of  schism  .  .  .  and 
instead  of  any  real  answer  to  that  fearful  spiritual 
dilemma,  they  set  me  down  to  folios  of  Nag's  head 
controversies  .  .  -.  and  myths  of  an  independent 
British  Church,  now  represented,  strangely  enough, 


90  A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING. 

by  those  Saxons  who,  after  its  wicked  refusal  to  com- 
municate with  them,  exterminated  it  with  fire  and 
sword,  and  derived  its  own  order  from  St.  Gregory 
.  .  .  and  decisions  of  mythical  old  councils  (held  by 
bishops  of  a  different  faith  and  practice  from  their 
own),  from  which  I  was  to  pick  the  one  point  which 
made  for  them,  and  omit  the  nine  which  made  against 
them,  while  I  was  to  believe,  by  a  stretch  of  imagina- 
tion ...  or  common  honesty  .  .  .  which  I  leave  you 
to  conceive,  that  the  Church  of  Syria  in  the  fourth 
century  was,  in  doctrine,  practice,  and  constitution, 
like  that  of  England  in  the  nineteenth  1  .  .  .  And 
what  was  I  to  gain  by  all  this  ?  .  .  .  For  the  sake  of 
what  was  I  to  strain  logic  and  conscience  ?  To  believe 
myself  a  member  of  the  same  body  with  all  the 
Christian  nations  of  the  earth  ? — to  be  able  to  hail  the 
Frenchman,  the  Italian,  the  Spaniard,  as  a  brother — 
to  have  hopes  even  of  the  German  and  the  Swede  .  .  . 
if  not  in  this  life,  still  in  the  life  to  come  ?  No  .  .  . 
to  be  able  still  to  sit  apart  from  all  Christendom  in 
the  exclusive  pride  of  insular  Pharisaism  ;  to  claim  for 
the  modern  littleness  of  England  the  infallibility 
which  I  denied  to  the  primaeval  mother  of  Christen- 
dom, not  to  enlarge  my  communion  to  the  Catholic, 
but  excommunicate,  to  all  practical  purposes,  over  and 
above  the  Catholics,  all  other  Protestants  except  my 
own  sect  ...  or  rather,  in  practice,  except  my  own 
party  in  my  own  sect  .  .  .  And  this  was  belk'\  in.u 
in  one  Catholic  and  Apostolic  church !  .  .  .  this  was 
to  be  my  share  of  the  communion  of  saints !  And 


•      A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING.  91 

these  were  the  theories  which  were  to  satisfy  a  soul 
which  longed  for  a  kingdom  of  God  on  earth,  which 
felt  that  unless  the  highest  of  His  promises  are  a 
mythic  dream,  there  must  be  some  system  on  the 
earth  commissioned  to  fulfil  those  promises ;  some 
authority  divinely  appointed  to  regenerate,  and  rule, 
and  guide  the  lives  of  men,  and  the  destinies  of 
nations ;  who  must  go  mad,  unless  he  finds  that 
history  is  not  a  dreary  aimless  procession  of  lost 
spirits  descending  into  the  pit,  or  that  the  salvation 
of  millions  does  not  depend  on  an  obscure  and  contro- 
verted hair's  breadth  of  ecclesiastic  law. 

"  I  have  tried  them  both,  Lancelot,  and  found  them 
wanting ;  and  now  but  one  road  remains.  .  .  .  Home, 
to  the  fountain-head ;  to  the  mother  of  all  the  churches 
whose  fancied  cruelty  to  her  children  can  no  more 
destroy  her  motherhood,  than  their  confest  rebellion 
can.  .  .  .  Shall  I  not  hear  her  voice,  when  she,  and 
she  alone  cries  to  me,  '  I  have  authority  and  commis- 
sion from  the  King  of  kings  to  regenerate  the  world. 
History  is  a  chaos,  only  because  mankind  has  been 
ever  rebelling  against  me,  its  lawful  ruler  .  .  .  and 
yet  not  a  chaos  ...  for  I  still  stand,  and  grow  rooted 
on  the  rock  of  ages,  and  under  my  boughs  are  fowl  of 
every  wing.  I  alone  have  been  and  am  consistent, 
progressive,  expansive,  welcoming  every  race,  and 
intellect  and  character  into  its  proper  place  in  my 
great  organism  .  .  .  meeting  alike  the  wants  of  the 
king  and  the  beggar,  the  artist  and  the  devotee  .  .  . 
there  is  free  room  for  all  within  my  heaven -wide 


92  A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING. 

bosom.  Infallibility  is  not  the  exclusive  heritage  of 
one  proud  and  ignorant  Island,  but  of  a  system  which 
knows  no  distinction  of  language,  race,  or  clima  The 
communion  of  saints  is  not  a  bygone  tale,  for  my 
saints,  redeemed  from  every  age  and  every  nation 
under  heaven,  still  live,  and  love,  and  help  and  inter- 
cede. The  union  of  heaven  and  earth  is  not  a  barbaric 
myth;  for  I  have  still  my  miracles,  my  Host,  my 
exorcism,  my  absolution.  The  present  rule  of  God  is 
still,  as  ever,  a  living  reality ;  for  I  rule  in  His  name, 
and  fulfil  all  His  will' 

"  How  can  I  turn  away  from  such  a  voice  1  What 
if  some  of  her  doctrines  may  startle  my  untutored 
and  ignorant  understanding?  ...  If  she  is  the  ap- 
pointed teacher,  she  will  know  best  what  truths  to 
teach.  .  .  .  The  disciple  is  not  above  his  master  .  .  . 
or  wise  in  requiring  him  to  demonstrate  the  abstrusest 
problems  .  .  .  spiritual  problems,  too  ...  before  he 
allows  his  right  to  teach  the  elements.  Humbly  I 
must  enter  the  temple  porch  ;  gradually  and  trustfully 
proceed  with  my  initiation.  .  .  .  When  that  is  past, 
and  not  before  .  .  .  shall  I  be  a  fit  judge  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  inner  shrine. 

"There  ...  I  have  written  a  long  letter  .  .  . 
with  my  own  heart's  blood.  .  .  .  Think  over  it  well, 
before  you  despise  it  ...  And  if  you  can  refute  it 
for  me,  and  sweep  the  whole  away  like  a  wild  dream 
when  one  awakes,  none  will  be  more  thankful  — 
paradoxical  as  it  may  seem — than  your  unhappy 
Cousia" 


A  SHAM  IS  WOESE  THAN  NOTHING.  93 

And  Lancelot  did  consider  that  letter,  and  answered 
it  as  follows  : — 

"  It  is  a  relief  to  me  at  least,  dear  Luke,  that  you 
are  going  to  Rome  in  search  of  a  great  idea,  and  not 
merely  from  selfish  superstitious  terror  (as  I  should 
call  it)  about  the  'salvation  of  your  soul.'  And  it  is 
a  new  and  very  important  thought  to  me,  that  Rome's 
scheme  of  this  world,  rather  than  of  the  next,  forms 
her  chief  allurement.  But  as  for  that  flesh  and  spirit 
question,  or  the  apostolic  succession  one  either;  all 
you  seem  to  me,  as  a  looker  on,  to  have  logically 
proved,  is  that  Protestants,  orthodox  and  unorthodox, 
must  be  a  little  more  scientific  and  careful  in  their 
use  of  the  terms.  But  as  for  adopting  your  use  of 
them,  and  the  consequences  thereof — you  must  pardon 
me,  and  I  suspect,  them  too.  Not  that.  Anything 
but  that.  Whatever  is  right,  that  is  wrong.  Better 
to  be  inconsistent  in  truth,  than  consistent  in  a  mis- 
take. And  your  Romish  idea  of  man  is  a  mistake — 
utterly  wrong  and  absurd — except  in  the  one  require- 
ment of  righteousness  and  godliness,  which  Protest- 
ants and  heathen  philosophers  have  required  and  do 
require  just  as  much  as  you.  My  dear  Luke,  your 
ideal  men  and  women  won't  do — for  they  are  not 
men  and  women  at  all,  but  what  you  call  'saints'  .  .  . 
Your  Calendar,  your  historic  list  of  the  Earth's 
worthies,  won't  do — not  they,  but  others,  are  the 
people  who  have  brought  Humanity  thus  far.  I  don't 
deny  that  there  are  great  souls  among  them ;  Beckets, 
and  Hugh  Grostetes,  and  Elizabeths  of  Hungary. 


94  A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING. 

But  you  are  the  last  people  to  praise  them,  for  you 
don't  understand  them.  Thierry  honours  Thomas  a 
Becket  more  than  all  Canonisations  and  worshippers 
do,  because  he  does  see  where  the  man's  true  great- 
ness lay,  and  you  don't  Why,  you  may  hunt  all 
Surius  for  such  a  biography  of  a  mediaeval  worthy  as 
Carlyle  has  given  of  your  Abbot  Samson.  I  have 
read,  or  tried  to  read  your  Surius,  and  Alban  Butler, 
and  so  forth — and  they  seemed  to  me  bats  and  asses 
— One  really  pitied  the  poor  saints  and  martyrs  for 
having  such  blind  biographers — such  dunghill  cocks, 
who  overlooked  the  pearl  of  real  human  love  and 
nobleness  in  them,  in  their  greediness  to  snatch  up 
and  parade  the  rotten  chaff  of  superstition,  and  self- 
torture,  and  spiritual  dyspepsia,  which  had  overlaid  it 
My  dear  fellow,  that  Calendar  ruins  your  cause — you 
are  'sacrds  aristocrates ' — kings  and  queens,  bishops 
and  virgins  by  the  hundred  at  one  end ;  a  beggar  or 
two  at  the  other  j  and  but  one  real  human  lay  St 
Homobonus  to  fill  up  the  great  gulf  between — A 
pretty  list  to  allure  the  English  middle  classes,  or  the 
Lancashire  working-men  ! — Almost  as  charmingly 
suited  to  England  as  the  present  free,  industrious, 
enlightened,  and  moral  state  of  that  Eternal  City, 
which  has  been  blest  with  the  visible  presence  and 
peculiar  rule,  temporal  as  well  as  spiritual,  too,  of 
your  Dalai  Lama.  His  pills  do  not  seem  to  have  had 
much  practical  effect  there.  .  .  .  My  good  Luke,  till 
he  can  show  us  a  little  better  specimen  of  the  kinu 
dom  of  Heaven  organised  and  realised  on  earth,  in 


A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING.  95 

the  country  which  does  belong  to  him,  soil  and  people, 
body  and  soul,  we  must  decline  his  assistance  in 
realising  that  kingdom  in  countries  which  don't  be- 
long to  him.  If  the  state  of  Eome  don't  show  his 
idea  of  man  and  society  to  be  a  rotten  lie,  what  proof 
would  you  have  ?  .  .  .  perhaps  the  charming  results 
of  a  century  of  Jesuitocracy,  as  they  were  represented 
on  the  French  stage  in  the  year  1793  ?  I  can't  answer 
his  arguments,  you  see,  or  yours  either;  I  am  an 
Englishman,  and  not  a  controversialist.  The  only 
answer  I  give  is  John  Bull's  old  dumb  instinctive 
'  Everlasting  No  ! '  which  he  will  stand  by,  if  need  be, 
with  sharp  shot  and  cold  steel — '  Not  that ;  anything 
but  that.  No  kingdom  of  Heaven  at  all  for  us,  if  the 
kingdom  of  Heaven  is  like  that.  No  heroes  at  all 
for  us,  if  their  heroism  is  to  consist  in  their  being  not? 
men.  Better  no  society  at  all,  but  only  a  competitive 
wild  beast's -den,  than  a  sham  society.  Better  no 
faith,  no  hope,  no  love,  no  God,  than  shams  thereof.' 
I  take  my  stand  on  fact  and  nature ;  you  may  call 
them  idols  and  phantomsYT~say  they  need  be  so  no 
longer  to  any  man,  since  Bacon  has  taught  us  to  dis- 
cover the  Eternal  Laws  under  the  outward  phenomena. 
Here  on  blank  materialism  will  Tjstand,jand  testify 
against  all  Religions  and  Gods  whatsoever,  if  they 
must  needs  be  like  that  Roman  religion,  that  Roman 
"God.  I  don't  believe  they  need — ^noTX  But  if  They 
need,  they  must  go.  We  cannot  have  a  '  Deus  quidam 
deceptor.'  If  there  be  a  God,  these  trees  and  stones, 
these  beasts  and  birds  must  be  His  will,  whatever 


96  A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING. 

else  is  not.  My  body,  and  brain,  and  faculties,  and 
appetites  must  be  His  will,  whatever  else  is  not 
Whatsoever  I  can  do  with  them  in  accordance  with 
the  constitution  of  them  and  nature  must  be  His  will, 
whatever  else  is  not  Those  laws  of  Nature  must 
reveal  Him,  and  be  revealed  by  Him,  whatever  else  is 
not  M>n's  scientific  conquest  of  nature  must  be  one 
phase  of  His  Kingdom  on  Earth,  whatever  else  is  not 
I  donVdony  that  them  are' spiritual  laws  wnich  man 
is  meant  to  obey^How~can  I,  who  feel  in  my  own 
daily  and  inexplicable  unhappiness  the  fruits  of 
having  broken  them? — But  I  do  say,  that  those 
spiritual  laws  must  be  in  perfect  harmonvwith  evyy_ 
X  treatt  physical  law  which  we  discover :  That  they 
cannot  be  intended  to  compete  self-destructively  with 
each  other ;  that  the  spiritual  cannot  be  intended 
to  be  perfected  by  ignoring  or  crushing  the  physical, 
unless  God  is  a  deceiver,  and  His  universe  a  self-con- 
tradiction. And  by  this  test  alone  will  1  try  all 
theories,  and  dogmas,  and  spiritualities  whatsoever — 
Are  they  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  nature? 
And  therefore  when  your  party  compare  sneeringly 
Romish  Sanctity,  and  English  Civilisation,  I  say, 
'  Take  you  the  Sanctity,  and  give  me  the  Civilisation !' 
The  one  may  be  a  dream,  for  it  is  unnatural ;  the 
other  cannot  be,  for  it  is  natural ;  and  not  an  evil  in 
it  at  which  you  sneer  but  is  discovered,  day  by  day, 
to  be  owing  to  some  infringement  of  the  laws  of 
nature.  When  we  *  draw  bills  on  nature,'  as  CarlyJe 
says,  'she  honours  them,' — our  ships  do  sail ;  our 


A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING.  97 

mills  do  work ;  our  doctors  do  curej_ourj?pldi.ers  do 
fight.  And  she  does  not  honour  yours;  for  your 
"Jesuits  have,  by  their  own  confession,  to  lie,  to 
swindle,  to  get  even  man  to  accept  theirs  for  them. 
So  give  me  the  political  economist,  the  sanitary  re- 
former,  the  engirieeFJ^ahd  take  your  saintslmd  virgins 
relics  and  miracles.  ThlTlspTnTiing^jemiy  and  the 
'railroad,  Cunard's  liners  and  the  electric  telegraph, 
are  to  me,  if  not  to  you,  signs  that^we  are,  on  some 
points  at  least,  in  harmony  with  the  universe ;  that 
there  is  a  mighty  spirit  working  among  us,  who  can- 
not be  your  anarchic  and  destroying  Devil,  and  there- 
fore may  be  the  Ordering  and  Creating  God." 

Which  of  them  do  you  think,  reader,  had  most 
right  on  his  side  ? 


CHAPTER  VL 

VOGUE  LA  GALERE. 

LANCELOT  was  now  so  far  improved  in  health  as  to 
return  to  his  little  cottage  ornte.  He  gave  himself 
up  freely  to  his  new  passion.  With  his  comfortable 
fortune  and  good  connections,  the  future  seemed 
bright  and  possible  enough  as  to  circumstances.  He 
knew  that  Argemone  felt  for  him ;  how  much  it 
seemed  presumptuous  even  to  speculate,  and  as  yet 
no  golden-visaged  meteor  had  arisen  portentous  in  his 
amatory  zodiac.  No  rich  man  had  stepped  in  to 
snatch,  in  spite  of  all  his  own  flocks  and  herds,  at  the 
poor  man's  own  ewe-lamb,  and  set  him  barking  at  all 
the  world,  as  many  a  poor  lover  has  to  do  in  defence 
of  his  morsel  of  enjoyment,  now  turned  into  a  mere 
bone  of  contention  and  loadstone  for  all  hungry  kites 
and  crows. 

All  that  had  to  be  done  was  to  render  himself 
worthy  of  her,  and  in  doing  so,  to  win  her.  And 
now  he  began  to  feel  more  painfully  his  ignorance  of 
society,  of  practical  life,  and  the  outward  present 
He  blamed  himself  angrily  for  having,  as  he  now 
thought,  wasted  his  time  on  ancient  histories  and 


VOGUE  LA  GALERE.  99 

foreign  travels,  while  he  neglected  the  living  wonder- 
ful present,  which  weltered  daily  round  him,  every 
face  embodying  a  living  soul.  For  now  he  began  to 
feel  that  those  faces  did  hide  living  souls ;  formerly 
he  had  half  believed — he  had  tried,  but  from  laziness, 
to  make  himself  wholly  believe — that  they  were  all 
empty  masks,  phantasies,  without  interest  or  signifi- 
cance for  him.  But,  somehow,  in  the  light  of  his  new 
love  for  Argemone,  the  whole  human  race  seemed 
glorified,  brought  nearer,  endeared  to  him.  So  it 
must  be.  He  had  spoken  of  a  law  wider  than  he 
thought  in  his  fancy,  that  the  angels  might  learn  love 
for  all  by  love  for  an  individual.  Do  we  not  all  learn 
love  so?  Is  it  not  the  first  touch  of  the  mother's 
bosom  Avhich  awakens  in  the  infant's  heart  that  spark 
of  affection  which  is  hereafter  to  spread  itself  out 
towards  every  human  being,  and  to  lose  none  of  its 
devotion  for  its  first  object,  as  it  expands  itself  to 
innumerable  new  ones?  Is  it  not  by  love,  too — by 
looking  into  loving  human  eyes,  by  feeling  the  care 
of  loving  hands, — that  the  infant  first  learns  that 
there  exist  other  beings  beside  itself? — that  every 
body  which  it  sees  expresses  a  heart  and  will  like  its 
own?  Be  sure  of  it  Be  sure  that  to  have  found 
the  key  to  one  heart  is  to  have  found  the  key  to  all ; 
that  truly  to  love  is  truly  to  know;  and  truly  to 
love  one,  is  the  first  step  towards  truly  loving  all 
who  bear  the  same  flesh  and  blood  with  the  beloved. 
Like  children,  we  must  dress  up  even  our  unseen 
future  in  stage  properties  borrowed  from  the  tried 


100  VOGUE  LA  GALORE. 

and  palpable  present,  ere  we  can  look  at  it  without 
horror.  We  fear  and  hate  the  utterly  unknown,  and 
it  only.  Even  pain  we  hate  only  when  we  cannot 
know  it;  when  we  can  only  feel  it,  without  explain- 
ing it,  and  making  it  harmonise  with  our  notions  of 
our  own  deserts  and  destiny.  And  as  for  human 
beings,  there  surely  it  stands  true,  wherever  else  it 
may  not,  that  all  knowledge  is  love,  and  all  love 
knowledge ;  that  even  with  the  meanest,  we  cannot 
gain  a  glimpse  into  their  inward  trials  and  struggles, 
without  an  increase  of  sympathy  and  affection. 

Whether  he  reasoned  thus  or  not,  Lancelot  found 
that  his  new  interest  in  the  working  classes  was 
strangely  quickened  by  his  passion.  It  seemed  the 
shortest  and  clearest  way  toward  a  practical  know- 
ledge of  the  present  "Here,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"in  the  investigation  of  existing  relations  between 
poor  and  rich,  I  shall  gain  more  real  acquaintance 
with  English  society,  than  by  dawdling  centuries  in 
exclusive  drawing-rooms." 

The  inquiry  had  not  yet  presented  itself  to  him 
as  a  duty ;  perhaps  so  much  the  better,  that  it  might 
be  the  more  thoroughly  a  free-will  offering  of  love. 
At  least  it  opened  a  new  field  of  amusement  and 
knowledge ;  it  promised  him  new  studies  of  human 
life ;  and  as  ho  lay  on  his  sofa  and  let  his  thoughts 
flow,  Tregarva's  dark  revelations  began  to  mix  them- 
selves with  dreams  about  the  regeneration  of  tho 
Whitford  poor,  and  those  again  with  dreams  about 
the  heiress  of  Whitford ;  and  many  a  luscious  scene 


VOGUE  LA  GALERE.  101 

and  noble  plan  rose  brightly  detailed  in  his  exuberant 
imagination.    For  Lancelot,  like  all  born  artists,  coulct^ 
only  think  in  a  concrete  form.     He  never  worked  out 
a  subject  without  embodying  it  in  some  set  oration, 
dialogue,  or  dramatic  castle  in  the  air. 

But  the  more  he  dreamt,  the  more  he  felt  that  a 
material  beauty  of  flesh  and  blood  required  a  material 
house,  baths,  and  boudoirs,  conservatories,  and  carri- 
ages; a  safe  material  purse,  and  fixed  material  society; 
law  and  order,  and  the  established  frame -work  of 
society,  gained  an  importance  in  his  eyes  which  they 
had  never  had  before. 

"  Well,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  am  turning  quite 
practical  and  auld-warld.  Those  old  Greeks  were  not 
so  far  wrong  when  they  said  that  what  made  men 
citizens,  patriots,  heroes,  was  the  love  of  wedded  wife 
and  child." 

"Wedded  wife  and  child!" — He  shrank  in  from 
the  daring  of  the  delicious  thought,  as  if  he  had  in- 
truded without  invitation  into  a  hidden  sanctuary, 
and  looked  round  for  a  book  to  drive  away  the  dazz- 
ling picture.  But  even  there  his  thoughts  were 
haunted  by  Argemone's  face,  and 

"When  his  regard 

Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveness,  two  eyes, 
Two  starry  eyes,  hung  in  the  gloom  of  thought, 
And  seemed,  with  their  serene  and  azure  smiles, 
To  beckon  him." 

He  took  up,  with  a  new  interest  "  Chartism,"  which 
alone  of  all  Mr.  Carlyle's  works  he  hacT  hitherto  dis- 


102  VOGUE  LA  GALORE. 

liked,  because  his  own  luxurious  day -dreams  had 
always  flowed  in  such  sad  discord  with  the  terrible 
warnings  of  the  modern  seer,  and  his  dark  vistas  of 
starvation,  crime,  neglect,  and  discontent 

"  Well,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  closed  the  book, 
"  I  suppose  it  is  good  for  us  easy-going  ones  now  and 
then  to  face  the  possibility  of  a  change.  Gold  has 
grown  on  my  back  as  feathers  do  on  geese,  without 
my  own  will  or  deed;  but  considering  that  gold, 
like  feathers,  is  equally  useful  to  those  who  have  and 
those  who  have  not,  why,  it  is  worth  while  for  the 
goose  to  remember  that  he  may  posssibly  one  day  bo 
plucked.  And  what  remains  ?  '  Io,'  as  Medea  says. 
.  .  .  But  Argemonef  .  .  .  And  Lancelot  felt,  for 
the  moment,  as  conservative  as  the  tutelary  genius  of 
all  special  constables. 

As  the  last  thought  passed  through  his  brain, 
Bracebridge's  little  mustang  slouched  past  the  win- 
dow, ridden  (without  a  saddle)  by  a  horseman  whom 
there  was  no  mistaking  for  no  one  but  the  immaculate 
colonel,  the  chevalier  sons  peur  d  sans  reproche,  dared  to 
go  about  the  country  "such  a  figure."  A  minute 
afterwards  he  walked  in,  in  a  felt  student's  hat,  a 
ragged  heather-coloured  coatee,  and  old  white  "regula- 
tion drills,"  shrunk  half-way  up  his  legs,  a  pair  of 
embroidered  Indian  mocassins,  and  an  enormous  meer- 
schaum at  his  button-hole. 

"  Where  have  you  been  this  last  week  1" 

"Over  head  and  ears  in  Young  England,  till  I  llnl 
to  you  for  a  week's  common  sense.  A  glass  of  cider, 


VOGUE  LA  GALERE.  103 

for  mercy's  sake,  'to  take  the  taste  of  it  out  of  my 
mouth,'  as  Bill  Sykes  has  it." 

"Where  have  you  been  staying1?" 

"  With  young  Lord  Vieuxbois,  among  high  art  and 
painted  glass,  spade  farms,  and  model  smell-traps, 
rubricalities  and  sanitary  reforms,  and  all  other  inven- 
tions, possible  and  impossible,  for  '  stretching  the  old 
formula  to  meet  the  new  fact,'  as  your  favourite  pro- 
phet says." 

"Till  the  old  formula  cracks  under  the  tension." 

"And  cracks  its  devotees,  too,  I  think.  Here 
comes  the  cider ! " 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  you  must  not  laugh  at  all 
this.     Young  England  or  Peelite,  this  is  all  right  and 
noble.     What  a  yet  unspoken  poetry  there  is  in  thalTN. 
very  sanitary  reform  !     It  is  the  great  fact  of  the  age.     ) 
We  shall  have  men  arise  and  write  epics  on  it,  when   / 
they  have  learnt  that '  to  the  pure  all  things  are  pure,'  ' 
and  that  science  and  usefulness  contain  a  divine  ele- 
ment, even  in  their  lowest  appliances. 

"Write  one  yourself,  and  call  it  the  Cliadwickiad" 

"  Why  not  ?  . 

' '  Smells  and  the  Man  I  sing.  \ 

There's  a  beginning  at  once.  Why  don't  you  rather, 
with  your  practical  power,  turn  sanitary  reformer — 
the  only  true  soldier — and  conquer  those  real  devils 
and  'natural  enemies'  of  Englishmen,  carbonic  acid 
and  sulphuretted  hydrogen  ?" 

"  Ce  riest  pas  mon  mdtier,  my  dear  fellow.  I  am 
miserably  behind  the  age.  People  are  getting  so 


104  VOGUE  LA  GALORE. 

cursedly  in  earnest  now-a-days,  that  I  shall  have  to 
bolt  to  the  backwoods  to  amuse  myself  in  peace ;  or 
else  sham  dumb  as  the  monkeys  do,  lest  folks  should 
find  out  that  I'm  rational,  and  set  me  to  work." 

Lancelot  laughed  and  sighed. 

"  But  how  on  earth  do  you  contrive  to  get  on  so 
well  with  men  with  whom  you  have  not  an  idea  in 
common  ?" 

"  Savoir  faire,  0  infant  Hercules !  own  daddy  to 
savoir  mere.  I  am  a  good  listener ;  and,  therefore,  the 
most  perfect,  because  the  most  silent,  of  flatterers. 
When  they  talk  Puginesquery,  I  stick  my  head  on 
one  side  attentively,  and  '  think  the  more,'  like  the 
lady's  parrot  I  have  been  all  the  morning  looking 
over  a  set  of  drawings  for  my  lord's  new  chapel ;  and 
every  soul  in  the  party  fancies  me  a  great  antiquary, 
just  because  I  have  been  retailing  to  B  as  my  own 
everything  that  A  told  me  the  moment  before," 

"I  envy  you  your  tact,  at  all  events." 

"Why  the  deuce  should  you?  You  may  rise  in 
time  to  something  better  than  tact ;  to  what  the  good 
book,  I  suppose,  means  by  '  wisdom.'  Young  geniuses 
like  you,  who  have  been  green  enough  to  sell  your 
souls  to  '  truth,'  must  not  meddle  with  tact,  unless  yon 
wish  to  fare  as  the  donkey  did  when  he  tried  to  play 
lap-dog." 

"At  all  events,  I  would  sooner  remain  cub  till 
they  run  me  down  and  eat  me,  than  give  up  speaking 
my  mind,"  said  Lancelot  "  Fool  I  may  be,  but  the 
devil  himself  sha'n't  make  me  knave." 


VOGUE  LA  GALERE.  105 

"  Quite  proper.  On  two  thousand  a  year  a  man 
can  afford  to  be  honest.  Kick  out  lustily  right  and 
left ! — After  all,  the  world  is  like  a  spaniel ;  the  more 
you  beat  it,  the  better  it  likes  you — if  you  have  money. 
Only  don't  kick  too  hard ;  for,  after  all,  it  has  a  hun- 
dred million  pair  of  shins  to  your  one." 

"  Don't  fear  that  I  shall  run-a-muck  against  society 
just  now.  I  am  too  thoroughly  out  of  my  own  good 
books.  I  have  been  for  years  laughing  at  Youag__ 
England,  and  yet  its  little  finger  is  thicker  than  my 
whole  body,  for  it  is  trying  to  do  something ;  and  I, 
alas,  am  doing  utterly  nothing.  I  should  be  really 
glad  to  take  a  lesson  of  these  men  and  their  plans  for 
social  improvement." 

"You  will  have  a  fine  opportunity  this  evening. 
Don't  you  dine  at  Minchampstead1?" 

"Yes.     Do  you?" 

"Mr.  Jingle  dines  everywhere,  except  at  home. 
Will  you  take  me  over  in  your  trap  1" 

"Done.     But  whom  shall  we  meet  there?" 

"The  Lavingtons,  and  Vieuxbois,  and  Vaurien, 
and  a  parson  or  two,  I  suppose.  But  between  Saint 
Venus  and  Vieuxbois  you  may  soon  learn  enough  to 
make  you  a  sadder  man,  if  not  a  wiser  one." 

"  Why  not  a  wiser  one  1  Sadder  than  now  I  can- 
not be;  or  less  wise,  God  knows." 

The  colonel  looked  at  Lancelot  with  one  of  those 
kindly  thoughtful  smiles,  which  came  over  him  when- 
ever his  better  child's  heart  could  bubble  up  through 
the  thick  crust  of  worldliness. 


106  VOGUE  LA  GAXERE. 

"  My  young  friend,  you  have  been  a  little  too  much 
on  the  stilts  heretofore.  Take  care  that,  now  you  are 
off  them,  you  don't  lie  down  and  sleep,  instead  of 
walking  honestly  on  your  legs.  Have  faith  in  your- 
self; gick  these  men's  brains,  and  all  men's.  You 
can  do  it  Sayto~yourseK  boldly,  as  the  false  prophet 
in  India  said  to  the  missionary,  '  I  have  fire  enough 
in  my  stomach  to  burn  up'  a  dozen  stucco  and  filigree 
reformers  and  '  assimilate  their  ashes  into  the  bargain, 
like  one  of  Liebig's  cabbages.'" 

"  How  can  I  have  faith  in  myself,  when  I  am  play- 
ing traitor  to  myself  every  hour  in  the  day  ?  And  yet 
faith  in  something  I  must  have  :  in  woman,  perhaps." 

"  Never ! "  said  the  colonel,  energetically.  "  In 
anything  but  woman  !  She  must  be  led,  not  leader. 
If  you  love  a  woman,  make  her  have  faith  in  you.  If 
you  lean  on  her,  you  will  ruin  yourself,  and  her  as 
well" 

Lancelot  shook  his  head.     There  was  a  pause. 

"  After  all,  colonel,  I  think  there  must  be  a  mean- 
ing in  those  old  words  our  mothers  used  to  teach  us 
about  'having  faith  in  God.'" 

The  colonel  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Qtiitn  sabe?  said  the  Spanish  girl,  when  they  asked 
her  who  was  her  child's  father.  But  here  comes  my  kit 
on  a  clod's  back,  and  it  is  time  to  dress  for  dinner." 

So  to  the  dinner-party  they  went 

Lord  Minchampstead  was  one  of  the  few  noblemen 
Lancelot  had  ever  met  who  had  aroused  in  him  a 
thorough  feeling  of  respect  He  was  always  and  in 


VOGUE  LA  GALORE.  107 

all  things  a  strong  man.  Naturally  keen,  ready,  busi- 
ness-like, daring,  he  had  carved  out  his  own  way 
through  life,  and  opened  his  oyster — the  world,  neither 
with  sword  nor  pen,  but  withjrtgamjmd  cotton.  His 
father  was  Mr.  Obadiah  Newbroom,  of  the  well-known 
manufacturing  firm  of  Newbroom,  Stag,  and  Playf orall. 
A  stanch  Dissenter  himself,  he  saw  with  a  slight  pang 
his  son  Thomas  turn  Churchman,  as  soon  as  the  young 
man  had  worked  his  way  up  to  be  the  real  head  of  the 
firm.  But  this  was  the  only  sorrow  which  Thomas 
Newbroom,  now  Lord  Minchampstead,  had  ever  given 
his  father.  "  I  stood  behind  a  loom  myself,  my  boy, 
when  I  began  life ;  and  you  must  do  with  great  means 
what  I  did  with  little  ones.  I  have  made  a  gentleman 
of  you,  you  must  makfi  a  nobleman  of  yourself." 
Those  were  almost  the  last  words  of  the  stern,  thrifty, 
old  Puritan  craftsman,  and  his  son  never  forgot  them. 
From  a  mill -owner  he  grew  to  coal -owner,  ship- 
owner, banker,  railway  director,  money-lender  to  kings 
and  princes ;  and  last  of  all,  as  the  summit  of  his  own 
and  his  compeer's  ambition,  to  land-owner.  He  had 
half-a-dozen  estates  in  as  many  different  counties.  He 
hacPadded  house"  to  house,  and  field  to  field ;  and  at 
last  bought  Minchampstead  Park  and  ten  thousand 
acres,  for  two-thirds  its  real  value,  from  that  enthusi- 
astic sportsman  Lord  Peu  de  Cervelle,  wjiose  jamily. 
had_come_injwith  the  Conqueror,  and  gone  out  with 
George  IV.  So,  at  least,  they  always  said ;  but  it  was 
remarkable  that  their  name  could  never  be  traced 
farther  back  than  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries  : 


108  VOGUE  LA  GALORE. 

and  Calumnious  Dryasdusts  would  sometimes  inso- 
lently father  their  title  on  James  I.  and  one  of  his 
batches  of  bought  peerages.  But  let  the  dead  bury 
their  dead.  There  was  now  a  new  lord  in  Minchamp- 
stead ;  and  every  country  Caliban  was  finding,  to  his 
disgust,  that  he  had  "  got  a  new  master,"  and  must 
perforce  "be  a  new  man."  Oh!  how  the  squires 
>/  swore  and  the  farmers  chuckled,  when  the  "Parvenu" 
3  sold  the  Minchampstead  hounds,  and  celebrated  his 
1st  of  September  by  exterminating  every  hare  and 
pheasant  on  the  estate  !  How  the  farmers  swore  and 
the  labourers  chuckled  when  he  took  all  the  cottages 
into  his  own  hands  and  rebuilt  them,  set  up  a  first- 
rate  industrial  school,  gave  every  man  a  pig  and  a 
garden,  and  broke  up  all  the  commons  "  to  thin  the 
labour-market"  Oh,  how  the  labourers  swore  and 
the  farmers  chuckled,  when  he  put  up  steam-engines 
on  all  his  farms,  refused  to  give  away  a  farthing  in 
alms,  and  enforced  the  new  Poor-law  to  the  very 
letter.  How  the  country  tradesmen  swore,  when 
he  called  them  "a  pack  of  dilatory  jobbers,"  and 
announced  his  intention  of  employing  only  London 
workmen  for  his  improvements.  Oh !  how  they  all 
swore  together  (behind  his  back,  of  course,  for  his 
dinners  were  worth  eating),  and  the  very  ladies  said 
naughty  words,  when  the  stern  political  economist 
proclaimed  at  his  own  table  that  "he  had  bought 
Minchampstead  for  merely  commercial  purposes,  as  a 
profitable  investment  of  capital,  and  he  would  see  that, 
whatever  else  it  did,  it  should  pay." 


VOGUE  LA  GALERE.  109 

But  the  new  lord  heard  of  all  the  hard  words  with 
a  qxiiet  self-possessed  smile.  He  had  formed  his 
narrow  theory  of  the  universe,  and  he  was  methodi- 
cally and  conscientiously  carrying  it  out.  True,  too 
often,  like  poor  Keats's  merchant  brothers,— 

"  Half-ignorant,  he  turned  an  easy  wheel, 
Which  set  sharp  racks  at  work  to  pinch  and  peel. " 

But  of  the  harm  which  he  did  he  was  unconscious ; 
in  the  good  which  he  did  he  was  consistent  and  inde- 
fatigable ;  infinitely  superior,  with  all  his  defects,  to 
the  ignorant,  extravagant,  do-nothing  Squire  Laving- 
tons  around  him.  At  heart,  however,  Mammon^ 
blinded,  he  was  kindly  and  upright.  A  man  of  a 
stately  presence  ;  a  broad,  honest,  north-country  face ; 
a  high  square  forehead,  bland  and  unwrinkled.  I 
sketch  him  here  once  for  all,  because  I  have  no  part 
for  him  after  this  scene  in  my  corps  de  ballet. 

Lord  Minchampstead  had  many  reasons  for  patron- 
ising Lancelot.  In  the  first  place,  he  had  a  true  eye 
for  a  strong  man  wherever  he  met  him ;  in  the  next 
place,  Lancelot's  uncle  the  banker,  was  a  stanch  Whig 
ally  of  his  in  the  House.  "In  the  rotten-borough 
times,  Mr.  Smith,"  he  once  said  to  Lancelot,  "we 
could  have  made  a  senator  of  you  at  once ;  but,  for 
the  sake  of  finality,  we  were  forced  to  relinquish  that 
organ  of  influence.  The  Tories  had  abused  it,  really, 
a  little  too  far ;  and  now  we  can  only  make  a  commis- 
sioner of  you — which,  after  all,  is  a  more  useful  post, 
and  a  more  lucrative  one."  But  Lancelot  had  not  as 
yet  "Galliolised,"  as  the  Irish  schoolmaster  used  to  call 


110  VOGUE  LA  GALORE. 

it,  and  cared  very  little  to  play  a  political  ninth 
fiddle. 

The  first  thing  which  caught  his  eyes  as  he  entered 
the  drawing-room  before  dinner  was  Argemone  listen- 
ing in  absorbed  reverence  to  her  favourite  vicar, — a 
stern,  prim,  close-shaven,  dyspeptic  man,  with  a  meek, 
cold  smile,  which  might  have  become  a  cruel  one. 
He  watched  and  watched  in  vain,  hoping  to  catch 
her  eye;  but  no — there  she  stood,  and  talked  and 
listened 

"Ah,"  said  Bracebridge,  smiling,  "it  is  in  vain, 
Smith !  When  did  you  know  a  woman  leave  the 
Church  for  one  of  us  poor  laymen  1" 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  said  Lancelot,  impatiently, 
"  why  will  they  make  such  fools  of  themselves  with 
clergymen  1" 

"They  are  quite  right  They  always  like  the 
strong  men — the  fighters  and  the  workers.  In  Vol- 
taire's time  they  all  ran  after  the  philosophers.  In 
the  middle  ages,  books  tell  us,  they  worshipped  the 
knights  errant  They  are  always  on  the  winning  side, 
the  cunning  little  beauties.  In  the  war-time,  when 
the  soldiers  had  to  play  the  world's  game,  the  ladies 
all  caught  the  red -coat  fever;  now,  in  these  talking 
and  thinking  days  (and  be  hanged  to  them  for  bores), 
they  have  the  black -coat  fever  for  the  same  reason. 
The  parsons  are  the  workers  now-a-days — or  rather, 
all  the  world  expects  them  to  be  so.  They  have 
the  game  in  their  own  hands,  if  they  did  but  know 
how  to  play  it" 


VOGUE  LA  GALERE.  Ill 

Lancelot  stood  still,  sulking  over  many  thoughts. 
The  colonel  lounged  across  the  room  towards  Lord 
Vieuxbois,  a  quiet,  truly  high-bred  young  man,  with 
a  sweet  open  countenance,  and  an  ample  forehead, 
whose  size  would  have  vouched  for  great  talents,  had 
not  the  promise  been  contradicted  by  the  weakness  of 
the  over-delicate  mouth  and  chin. 

"  Who  is  that  with  whom  you  came  into  the  room, 
Bracebridge1?"  asked  Lord  Vieuxbois.  "I  am  sure  I 
know  his  face." 

"Lancelot  Smith,  the  man  who  has  taken  the 
shooting-box  at  Lower  "VVhitford." 

"  Oh,  I  remember  him  well  enough  at  Cambridge  ! 
He  was  one  of  a  set  who  tried  to  look  like  black- 
guards, and  really  succeeded  tolerably.  They  used 
to  eschew  gloves,  and  drink  nothing  but  beer,  and 
smoke  disgusting  short  pipes ;  and  when  we  estab- 
lished the  Coverley  Club  in  Trinity,  they  set  up  an 
opposition,  and  called  themselves  the  Navvies.  And 
they  used  to  make  piratical  expeditions  down  to 
Lynn  in  eight  oars,  to  attack  bargemen,  and  fen  girls, 
and  shoot  ducks,  and  sleep  under  turf -stacks,  and 
come  home  when  they  had  drank  all  the  public-house 
taps  dry.  I  remember  the  man  perfectly." 

"Navvy  or  none,"  said  the  colonel,  "he  has  just 
the  longest  head  and  the  noblest  heart  of  any  man  I 
ever  met.  If  he  does  not  distinguish  himself  before 
he  dies,  I  know  nothing  of  human  nature." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  believe  he  is  clever  enough  ! — took  a 
good  degree,  a  better  one  than  I  did — but  horribly 


112  VOGUE  LA  GALORE. 

eclectic ;  full  of  mesmerism,  and  German  metaphysics, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  heard  of  him  one  night 
last  spring,  on  which  he  had  been  seen,  if  you  will 
believe  it,  going  successively  into  a  Swedenborgian 
chapel,  the  Garrick's  Head,  and  one  of  Elliotson's 
magnetic  soirSes.  What  can  you  expect  after  that?" 

"A  great  deal,"  said  Bracebridge,  drily.  "With 
such  a  head  as  he  carries  on  his  shoulders  the  man 
might  be  another  Mirabeau,  if  he  held  the  right  cards 
in  the  right  rubber.  And  he  really  ought  to  smt  you, 
for  he  raves  about  the  middle  ages,  and  chivalry,  and 
has  edited  a  book  full  of  old  ballads." 

"Oh,  all  the  eclectics  do  that  sort  of  thing;  and 
small  thanks  to  them.  However,  I  will  speak  to  him 
after  dinner,  and  see  what  there  is  in  him." 

And  Lord  Vieuxbois  turned  away,  and,  alas  for 
Lancelot !  sat  next  to  Argemone  at  dinner.  Lancelot, 
who  was  cross  with  everybody  for  what  was  nobody's 
fault,  revenged  himself  all  dinner-time  by  never 
speaking  a  word  to  his  next  neighbour,  Miss  New- 
broom,  who  was  longing  with  all  her  heart  to  talk 
sentiment  to  him  about  the  Exhibition;  and  when 
Argemone,  in  the  midst  of  a  brilliant  word-skirmish 
with  Lord  Vieuxbois,  stole  a  glance  at  him,  he  chose 
to  fancy  that  they  were  both  talking  of  him,  and 
looked  more  cross  than  ever. 

After  the  ladies  retired,  Lancelot,  in  his  sulky  way, 
made  up  his  mind  that  the  conversation  was  going  to 
be  ineffably  stupid ;  and  set-to  to  dream,  sip  claret, 
and  count  the  minutes  till  he  found  himself  in  the 


VOGUE  LA  GALEKE.  113 

drawing-room  with  Argemone.  But  he  soon  dis- 
covered, as  I  suppose  we  all  have,  that  "  it  never  rains 
but  it  pours,"  and  that  one  cannot  fall  in  with  a  new 
fact  or  a  new  acquaintance  but  next  day  twenty  fresh 
things  shall  spring  up  as  if  by  magic,  throwing  unex- 
pected light  on  one's  new  phenomenon.  Lancelot's 
head  was  full  of  the  condition -of -the -poor  question, 
and  lo  !  everybody  seemed  destined  to  talk  about  it. 

"Well,  Lord  Vieuxbois,"  said  the  host,  casually, 
"  my  girls  are  raving  about  your  new  school.  They 
say  it  is  a  perfect  antiquarian  gem." 

"Yes,  tolerable,  I  believe.  But  Wales  has  dis- 
appointed me  a  little.  That  vile  modernist  naturalism 
is  creeping  back  even  into  our  painted  glass.  I  could 
have  wished  that  the  artist's  designs  for  the  windows 
had  been  a  little  more  Catholic." 

"  How  then  1"  asked  the  host,  with  a  puzzled 
face. 

"Oh,  he  means,"  said  Bracebridge,  "that  the 
figures'  wrists  and  ankles  were  not  sufficiently  dislo- 
cated, and  the  patron  saint  did  not  look  quite  like  a 
starved  rabbit  with  its  neck  wrung.  Some  of  the 
faces,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  were  positively  like  good- 
looking  men  and  women." 

"Oh,  I  understand,"  said  Lord  Minchampstead ; 
"  Bracebridge's  tongue  is  privileged,  you  know,  Lord 
Vieuxbois,  so  you  must  not  be  angry." 

"  I  don't  see  my  way  into  all  this,"  said  Squire 
Lavington  (which  was  very  likely  to  be  true,  consider- 
ing that  he  never  looked  for  his  way).  "  I  don't  see 

I  Y. 


114  VOGUE  LA.  GALfcRE. 

how  all  these  painted  windows,  and  crosses,  and 
chanting,  and  the  deuce  and  the  Pope  only  know 
what  else,  are  to  make  boys  any  better." 

"  We  have  it  on  the  highest  authority,"  said  Yieux- 
bois,  "that  uiUiuea  and  music  are  the  books  of  the 
unlearned.     I  do  not  think  that  we  have  any  right  in  i 
the  nineteenth  century  to  contest  an  opinion  which/ 
the  fathers  of  the  Church  gave  in  the  fourth."  / 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Lancelot,  "  it  is  by  pictures 
and  musk,  by  art  and  song,  and  symbolic  representa- 
tions, that  all  nations  have  been  educated  in  their 
adolescence!  and  as  the  youth  of  the  individual  is 
exactly  analogous  to  the  youth  of  the  collective  race, 
we  should  employ  the  same  means  of  instruction  with 
our  children  winch  succeeded  in  the  early  ages  with 
the  whole  world." 

Lancelot  might  as  well  have  held  his  tongue- 
nobody  understood  him  but  Yieuxbois,  and  he  had 
been  taught  to  scent  German  neology  in  everything, 
m  some  folks  an  taught  to  scent  Jesuitry,  especially 
when  it  •iiulvBi  an  inductive  law,  and  not  a  toon 
red-tape  precedent,  and,  therefore,  could  not  see  that 
T^Mfli|')*  was  arguing  for  him. 

"AD  very  fine,  Smith,"  said  the  squire;  "it's  a 
phy  yon  wont  leave  off  puzzling  your  head  with  books, 
and  stick  to  fox-hunting.  All  you  young  gentlemen 
win  do  is  to  torn  the  heads  of  the  poor  with  your 
dotation."  The  national  oath  followed,  of 
"Pictures  and  chanting!  Why,  when  I  was 
a  boy,  a  good  honest  labouring  man  wanted  to  see 


VOGUE  LA  GALEEE.  115 

nothing  better  than  a  halfpenny  ballad,  with  a  wood- 
cut at  the  top,  and  they  worked  very  well  then,  and 
wanted  for  nothing." 

"  Oh,  we  shall  give  them  the  halfpenny  ballads  in 
time  !"  said  Yieuxbois,  smiling. 

'•  You  will  do  a  very  good  deed,  then,"  said  mine 
host     "  But  I  am  sorry  to  say  that,  as  far  as  I  can  j 
find  from  my  agents,  when  the  upper  classes  write 
cheap  publications,  the  lower  classes  will  not  ready 
them." 

"  Too  true,"  said  Yieuxbois. 

"Is  not  the  cause,"  asked  Lancelot,  "just  that  the 
upper  classes  do  write  them  1" 

"The  writings  of  working  men,  certainly,"  said 
Lord  Minchampstead,  "  have  an  enormous  sale  among 
their  own  class." 

"Just  because  they  express  the  feelings  of  that 
class,  of  which  I  am  beginning  to  fear  that  we  know 
very  little.  Look  again,  what  a  noble  literature  of 
people's  songs,  and  hymns  Germany  has.  Some  of 
Lord  Yieuxbois's  friends,  I  know,  are  busy  translating 
many  of  them." 

"  As  many  of  them,  that  is  to  say,"  said  Yieuxbois, 
"as  are  compatible  with  a  real  Church  spirit" 

"  Be  it  so ;  but  who  wrote  them  ?  Not  the  German 
aristocracy  for  the  people,  but  the  German  people  for 
themselves.  There  is  the  secret  of  their  power. 
^Yhy  not  educate  the  people  up  to  such  a  standard 
that  they  should  be  able  to  write  their  own  literature  1" 

"What/'  said  Mr.  Chalklands,  of  Chalklands,  who 


116  VOGUE  LA  GALERE. 

sat  opposite,  "would  you  have  working-men  turn 
ballad  writers?  There  would  be  au  end  of  work, 
then,  I  think" 

"  I  have  not  heard,"  said  Lancelot,  "  that  the  young 
women — ladies,  I  ought  to  say,  if  the  word  mean 
anything — who  wrote  the  '  Lowell  Offering,'  spun  less 
or  worse  cotton  than  their  neighbours." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Lord  Minchampstead,  "we 
have  the  most  noble  accounts  of  heroic  industry  and 
self- sacrifice  in  girls  whose  education,  to  judge  by 
its  fruits,  might  shame  that  of  most  English  young 
ladies." 

Mr.  Chalklands  expressed  certain  confused  notions 
that,  in  America,  factory  girls  carried  green  silk  para- 
sols, put  the  legs  of  pianos  into  trousers,  and  were 
too  prudish  to  make  a  shirt,  or  to  call  it  a  shirt  after 
it  was  made,  he  did  not  quite  remember  which. 

"It  is  a  great  pity,"  said  Lord  Minchampstead, 
"  that  our  factory-girls  are  not  in  the  same  state  of 
civilisation.  But  it  is  socially  impossible.  America 
is  in  an  abnormal  state.  In  a  young  country  flurtaws 
of  political  economy  do  not  make  themselves  fully 
felt  Here,  where  we  have  no  uncleared  world  to 
drain  the  labour-market,  we^jnajr_pity  and  alleviate 
the  condition  of  the  working-classes,  but  we  can  do 
nothing  more.  AU  the  modern  schemes  for  the  ameli- 
oration which  ignore  the  laws  of  competition,  must 
end  either  in  pauperisation  " — (with  a  glance  at  Lord 
Vieuxbois), — "or  in  the  destruction  of  property." 

Lancelot  said  nothing,  but  thought  the  more.     It 


VOGUE  LA  GALERE.  117 

did  strike  him  at  the  moment  that  the  few  might,  \ 
possibly,  be  made  for  the  many,  and  not  the  many  for 
the  few;  and  that  property  was  made  for  man,  not 
man  for  property.     But  he  contented  himself  with 
asking, — 

"You  think,  then,  my  lord,  that  in  the  present 
state  of  society,  no  dead -lift  can  be  given  to  the 
condition — in  plain  English,  the  wages — of  working- 
men,  without  the  destruction  of  property?" 

Lord  Minchampstead  smiled,  and  parried  the 
question. 

"There  may  be  other  dead-lift  ameliorations,  my 
young  friend,  besides  a  dead-lift  of  wages." 

So  Lancelot  thought,  also;  but  Lord  Minchampstead 
would  have  been  a  little  startled  could  he  have  seen 
Lancelot's  notion  of  a  dead -lift  Lord  Minchamp- 
stead was  thinking  of  cheap  bread  and  sugar.  Do 
you  think  that  I  will  tell  you  of  what  Lancelot  was 
thinking  1 

But  here  Vieuxbois  spurred  in  to  break  a  last  lance. 
He  had  been  very  much  disgusted  with  the  turn  the 
conversation  was  taking,  for  he  considered  nothing 
more  heterodox  than  the  notion  that  the  poor  were  to 
educate  themselves.  In  his  scheme,  of  course  the 
clergy  and  the  gentry  were  to  educate  the  poor,  who 
were  to  take  down  thankfully  as  much  as  it  was 
thought  proper  to  give  them :  and  all  beyond  was 
"self-will"  and  "private  judgment,"  the  fathers  of 
Dissent  and  Chartism,  Trades' -union  strikes,  and 
French  Revolutions,  et  si  qua  alia,. 


118  VOGUE  LA  GALERE. 

"  And  pray,  Mr.  Smith,  may  I  ask  what  limit  you 
would  put  to  education  ?" 

"  The  capacities  of  each  man,"  said  Lancelot  "  If 
man  living  in  civilised  society  has  one  right  which  he 
can  demand  it  is  this,  that  the  State  which  exists  by 
his  labour  shall  enable  him  to  develop,  or,  at  least, 
not  hinder  his  developing,  his  whole  faculties  to  their 
very  utmost,  however  lofty  that  may  be.  While  a 
man  who  might  be  an  author  remains  a  spade-drudge, 
or  a  journeyman  while  he  has  capacities  for  a  master ; 
while  any  man  able  to  rise  in  life  remains  by  social 
circumstances  lower  than  he  is  willing  to  place  himself, 
that  man  has  a  right  to  complain  of  the  State's  in- 
justice and  neglect" 

"  ReallvT-I  do  not  sec,"  said  Vieuxbois,  "why  people 
should  wish  to  rise  in  life.  They  had  no  such  self- 
willed  fancy  in  the  good  old  times.  The  whole  notion 
is  a  product  of  these  modern  dayj— 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  ho  luckily  remem- 
bered at  whose  table  he  was  sitting. 

"I  think,  honestly,"  said  Lancelot,  whose  blood 
was  up,  "  that  we  gentlemen  all  run  into  the  same 
fallacy.  We  fancy  ourselves  the  fixed  and  necessary 
element  in  society,  to  which  all  others  are  to  accom- 
modate themselves.  'Given  the  rights  of  the  few 
rich,  to  find  the  condition  of  the  many  poor.'  It 
seems  to  me  that  other  postulate  is  quite  as  fair: 
'  Given  the  rights  of  the  many  poor,  to  find  the  condi- 
tion of  the  few  rich.'" 

Lord  Minchampstead  laughed. 


VOGUE  LA  GALERE.  119 

"If  you  hit  us  so  hard,  Mr.  Smith,  I  must  really 
denounce  you  as  a  Communist.  Lord  Vieuxbois, 
shall  we  join  the  ladies  ?" 

In  the  drawing-room,  poor  Lancelot,  after  rejecting 
overtures  of  fraternity  from  several  young  ladies,  set 
himself  steadily  again  against  the  wall  to  sulk  and 
watch  Argemone.  But  this  time  she  spied  in  a  few 
minutes  his  melancholy,  moonstruck  face,  swam  up 
to  him,  and  said  something  kind  and  commonplace. 
She  spoke  in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  but  he  chose 
to  think  she  was  patronising  him — she  had  not  talked 
commonplaces  to  the  vicar.  He  tried  to  say  some- 
thing smart  and  cutting, — stuttered,  broke  down, 
blushed,  and  shrank  back  again  to  the  wall,  fancying 
that  every  eye  in  the  room  was  on  him ;  and  for  one 
moment  a  flash  of  sheer  hatred  to  Argemone  swept 
through  him.  * 

"Was  Argemone  patronising  him?  Of  course  she 
was.  True,  she  was  but  three -and -twenty,  and  he 
was  of  the  same  age ;  but,  spiritually  and  socially, 
the  girl  develops  ten  years  earlier  than  the  boy.  She 
was  flattered  and  worshipped  by  grey-headed  men, 
and  in  her  simplicity  she  thought  it  a  noble  self-sacri- 
fice to  stoop  to  notice  the  poor  awkward  youth.  And 
yet  if  he  could  have  seen  the  pure  moonlight  of  sisterly 
pity  which  filled  all  her  heart  as  she  retreated,  with 
something  of  a  blush  and  something  of  a  sigh,  and 
her  heart  fluttered  and  fell,  would  he  have  been  con- 
tent 1  Not  he.  It  was  her  love  he  wanted,  and  not 
her  pity ;  it  was  to  conquer  her  and  possess  her,  and 


120  VOGUE  LA  GALORE. 

inform  himself  with  her  image,  and  her  with  his  own ; 
though  as  yet  he  did  not  know  it;  though  the  moment 
that  she  turned  away  he  cursed  himself  for  selfish 
vanity,  and  moroseness  and  conceit 

"  Who  ain  I  to  demand  her  all  to  myself  ?  Her, 
the  glorious,  the  saintly,  the  unfallen  !  Is  not  a  look, 
a  word,  infinitely  more. than  I  deserve?  And  yet  I 
pretend  to  admire  tales  of  chivalry !  Old  knightly 
hearts  would  have  fought  and  wandered  for  years  to 
earn  a  tithe  of  the  favours  which  have  been  bestowed 
on  me  unasked.  "- 

Peace !  poor  Lancelot !  Thy  egg  is  by  no  means 
addle ;  but  the  chick  is  breaking  the  shell  in  some- 
what a  cross-grained  fashion. 


GHAPTEE  VII 

THE  DRIVE  HOME,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT. 

Now  it  was  not  extraordinary  that  Squire  Lavington 
had  "assimilated"  a  couple  of  bottles  of  Carbonel's 
best  port ;  for  however  abstemious  the  new  lord  him- 
self might  be,  he  felt  for  the  habits,  and  for  the  vote 
of  an  old-fashioned  Whig  squire.  Nor  was  it  extra- 
ordinary that  he  fell  fast  asleep  the  moment  he  got 
into  the  carriage;  nor,  again,  that  his  wife  and 
daughters  were  not  solicitous  about  waking  him ; 
nor,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  coachman  and  foot- 
man, who  were  like  all  the  squire's  servants,  of  the 
good  old  sort,  honest,  faithful,  boozing,  extravagant, 
happy-go-lucky  souls,  who  had  "  been  about  the  place 
these  forty  years,"  were  somewhat  owlish  and  un- 
steady on  the  box  Nor  was  it  extraordinary  that 
there  was  a  heavy  storm  of  lightning,  for  that  hap- 
pened three  times  a-week  in  the  chalk  hills  the  sum- 
mer through;  nor,  again,  that  under  these  circum- 
stances the  horses,  who  were  of  the  squire's  own 
breeding,  and  never  thoroughly  broke  (nothing  was 
done  thoroughly  at  Whitford),  went  rather  wildly 
home,  and  that  the  carriage  swung  alarmingly  down 


122  THE  DRIVE  HOME, 

the  steep  hills,  and  the  boughs  brushed  the  windows 
rather  too  often.  But  it  was  extraordinary  that  Mrs. 
Lavington  had  cast  off  her  usual  primness,  and  seemed 
to-night,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  in  an  exuberant 
good  humour,  which  she  evinced  by  snubbing  her 
usual  favourite  Honoria,  and  lavishing  caresses  on 
Argemone,  whose  vagaries  she  usually  regarded  with 
a  sort  of  puzzled  terror,  like  a  hen  who  has  hatched 
a  duckling. 

"  Honoria,  take  your  feet  off  my  dress.  Argemone, 
my  child,  I  hope  you  spent  a  pleasant  evening  ?" 

Argemone  answered  by  some  tossy  commonplace. 

A  pause  —  and  then  Mrs.  Lavington  recom- 
menced,— 

"  How  very  pleasing  that  poor  young  Lord  Vieux- 
bois  is,  after  all !" 

"I  thought  you  disliked  him  so  much." 

"  His  opinions,  my  child ;  but  we  must  hope  for 
the  best  He  seems  moral  and  well  inclined,  and 
really  desirous  of  doing  good  in  his  way ;  and  so  suc- 
cessful in  the  House,  too,  I  hear." 

"  To  me,"  said  Argemone,  "  ho  seems  to  want  life, 
originality,  depth,  everything  that  makes  a  great 
man.  Ho  knows  nothing  but  what  he  has  picked  up 
ready-made  from  books.  After  all,  his  opinions  are 
the  one  redeeming  point  in  him." 

"Ah,  my  dear,  when  it  pleases  Heaven  to  open 
your  eyes,  you  will  see  as  I  do !" 

Poor  Mrs.  Lavington  !  Unconscious  spokeswoman 
for  the  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  the  human  race ! 


AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  123 

What  are  we  all  doing  from  morning  to  night,  but 
setting  up  our  own  fancies  as  the  measure  of  all  heaven 
and  earth,  and  saying,  each  in  his  own  dialect,  Whig, 
Radical,  or  Tory,  Papist  or  Protestant,  "When  it 
pleases  Heaven  to  open  your  eyes  you  will  see  as  I  do"? 

"It  is  a  great  pity,"  went  on  Mrs.  Lavington, 
meditatively,  "  to  see  a  young  man  so  benighted  and 
thrown  away.  With  his  vast  fortune,  too — such  a 
means  of  good !  Really  we  ought  to  have  seen  a 
little  more  of  him.  I  think  Mr.  O'Blareaway's  con- 
versation might  be  a  blessing  to  him.  I  think  of 
asking  him  over  to  stay  a  week  at  Whitford,  to  meet 
that  sainted  young  man." 

Now  Argemone  did  not  think  the  Reverend  Pan- 
urgus  O'Blareaway,  incumbent  of  Lower  Whitford,  at 
all  a  sainted  young  man,  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  very 
vulgar,  slippery  Irishman ;  and  she  had,  somehow, 
tired  of  her  late  favourite,  Lord  Vieuxbois;  so  she 
answered  tossily  enough, — 

"  Really,  mamma,  a  week  of  Lord  Vieuxbois  will 
be  too  much.  We  shall  be  bored  to  death  with  the 
Cambridge  Camden  Society,  and  ballads  for  the 
people." 

"I  think,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lavington  (who  had, 
half  unconsciously  to  herself,  more  reasons  than  one 
for  bringing  the  young  lord  to  Whitford),  "  I  think, 
my  dear,  that  his  conversation,  with  all  its  faults,  will 
be  a  very  improving  change  for  your  father.  I  hope 
he's  asleep." 

The  squire's  nose  answered  for  itself. 


124  THE  DRIVE  HOME, 

"Really,  what  between  Mr.  Smith,  and  Colonel 
Bracebridge,  and  their  very  ineligible  friend,  Mr. 
Mellot,  whom  I  should  never  have  allowed  to  enter 
my  house  if  I  had  suspected  his  religious  views,  the 
place  has  become  a  hotbed  of  false  doctrine  and  heresy. 
I  have  been  quite  frightened  when  I  have  heard  their 
conversation  at  dinner,  lest  the  footmen  should  turn 
infidels ! " 

"Perhaps,  mamma,"  said  Honoria,  slyly,  "Lord 
Vieuxbois  might  convert  them  to  something  quite  as 
bad.  How  shocking  if  old  Giles,  the  butler,  should 
turn  Papist!" 

"  Honoria,  you  are  very  silly.  Lord  Vieuxbois  at 
least  can  be  trusted.  He  has  no  liking  for  low  com- 
panions. He  is  above  joking  with  grooms,  and  taking 
country  walks  with  gamekeepers." 

It  was  lucky  that  it  was  dark,  for  Honoria  and 
Argemone  both  blushed  crimsoa 

"  Your  poor  father's  mind  has  been  quite  unsettled 
by  all  their  ribaldry.  They  have  kept  him  so  con- 
tinually amused,  that  all  my  efforts  to  bring  him  to  a 
sense  of  his  awful  state  have  been  more  unavailing 
than  ever." 

Poor  Mrs.  Lavington  !  She  had  married,  at  eight- 
een, a  man  far  her  inferior  in  intellect ;  and  had  be- 
come— as  often  happens  in  such  cases — a  prude  and  a 
devotee.  The  squire,  who  really  admired  and  respected 
her,  confined  his  disgust  to  sly  curses  at  the  Methodists 
(under  which  name  he  used  to  include  every  species 
of  religious  earnestness,  from  Quakerism  to  that  of 


AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  125 

Mr.  Newman).  Mrs.  Lavington  used  at  first  to  dignify 
these  disagreeables  by  the  name  of  persecution,  and 
now  she  was  trying  to  convert  the  old  man  by  cold- 
ness, severity,  and  long  curtain-lectures,  utterly  un- 
intelligible to  their  victim,  because  couched  in  the 
peculiar  conventional  phraseology  of  a  certain  school. 
She  forgot,  poor  earnest  soul,  that  the  same  form  of 
religion  which  had  captivated  a  disappointed  girl  of 
twenty,  might  not  be  the  most  attractive  one  for  a 
jovial  old  man  of  sixty. 

Argemone,  who  a  fortnight  before  would  have 
chimed  in  with  all  her  mother's  lamentations,  now 
felt  a  little  nettled  and  jealous.  She  could  not  bear 
to  hear  Lancelot  classed  with  the  colonel. 

"Indeed,"  she  said,  "if  amusement  is  bad  for  my 
father,  he  is  not  likely  to  get  much  of  it  during  Lord 
Vieuxbois's  stay.  But,  of  course,  mamma,  you  will  do 
as  you  please." 

"Of  course  I  shall,  my  dear,"  answered  the  good 
lady,  in  a  tragedy-queen  tone.  "I  shall  only  take 
the  liberty  of  adding,  that  it  is  very  painful  to  me  to 
find  you  adding  to  the  anxiety  which  your  unfortunate 
opinions  give  me,  by  throwing  every  possible  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  my  plans  for  your  good." 

Argemone  burst  into  proud  tears  (she  often  did  so 
after  a  conversation  with  her  mother).  "Plans  for 
my  good ! " — And  an  unworthy  suspicion  about  her 
mother  crossed  her  mind,  and  was  peremptorily 
expelled  again.  What  turn  the  conversation  would 
have  taken  next,  I  know  not,  but  at  that  moment 


126  THE  DRIVE  HOME, 

Honoria  and  her  mother  uttered  a  fearful  shriek,  as 
their  side  of  the  carriage  jolted  half-way  up  the  bank, 
and  stuck  still  in  that  pleasant  position. 

The  squire  awoke,  and  the  ladies  simultaneously 
clapped  their  hands  to  their  ears,  knowing  what  was 
coming.  He  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window,  and 
discharged  a  broadside  of  at  least  ten  pounds'  worth 
of  oaths  (Bow  Street  valuation)  at  the  servants, 
who  were  examining  the  broken  wheel,  with  a  side 
volley  or  two  at  Mrs.  Lavington  for  being  frightened 
He  often  treated  her  and  Honoria  to  that  style  of 
oratory.  At  Argemone  he  had  never  sworn  but  once 
since  she  left  the  nursery,  and  was  so  frightened  at 
the  consequences,  that  he  took  care  never  to  do  it 
again. 

But  there  they  were  fast,  with  a  broken  wheel, 
plunging  horses,  and  a  drunken  coachman.  Luckily 
for  them,  the  colonel  and  Lancelot  were  following 
close  behind,  and  came  to  their  assistance. 

"The  colonel,  as  usual,  solved  the  problem. 

"Your  dog-cart  will  carry  four,  Smith?" 

"It  will." 

"Then  let  the  ladies  get  in,  and  Mr.  Lavington 
drive  them  home." 

"What?"  said  the  squire,  "with  both  my  hands 
red-hot  with  the  gout?  You  must  drive  three  of  us, 
colonel,  and  one  of  us  must  walk." 

"  I  will  walk,"  said  Argemone,  in  her  determined 
way. 

Mrs.  Lavington  began  something  about  propriety, 


AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  127 

but  was  stopped  with  another  pound's  worth  of  oaths 
by  the  squire,  who,  however,  had  tolerably  recovered 
his  good  humour,  and  hurried  Mrs.  Lavington  and 
Honoria,  laughingly,  into  the  dog-cart,  saying — 

"  Argemone's  safe  enough  with  Smith ;  the  servants 
will  lead  the  horses  behind  them.  It's  only  three 
miles  home,  and  I  should  like  to  see  any  one  speak  to 
her  twice  while  Smith's  fists  are  in  the  way." 

Lancelot  thought  so  too. 

"  You  can  trust  yourself  to  me,  Miss  Lavington  V 

"  By  all  means.  I  shall  enjoy  the  walk  after :" 

and  she  stopped.  In  a  moment  the  dog -cart  had 
rattled  off,  with  a  parting  curse  from  the  squire  to 
the  servants,  who  were  unharnessing  the  horses. 

Argemone  took  Lancelot's  arm ;  the  soft  touch 
thrilled  through  and  through  him;  and  Argemone 
felt,  she  knew  not  why,  a  new  sensation  run  through 
her  frame.  She  shuddered — not  with  pain. 

"You  are  cold,  Miss  Lavington?" 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least."  Cold!  when  every  vein 
was  boiling  so  strangely  !  A  soft  luscious  melancholy 
crept  over  her.  She  had  always  had  a  terror  of  dark- 
ness ;  but  now  she  felt  quite  safe  in  his  strength.  The 
thought  of  her  own  unprotected  girlhood  drew  her 
heart  closer  to  him.  She  remembered  with  pleasure 
the  stories  of  his  personal  prowess,  which  had  once 
made  her  think  him  coarse  and  brutal.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  knew  the  delight  of  dependence — 
the  holy  charm  of  weakness.  And  as  they  paced  on 
silently  together,  through  the  black  awful  night,  while 


128  THE  DRIVE  HOME, 

the  servants  lingered,  far  out  of  sight,  about  the 
horses,  she  found  out  how  utterly  she  trusted  to 
him. 

" Listen!"  she  said.  A  nightingale  was  close  to 
them,  pouring  out  his  whole  soul  in  song. 

"  Is  it  not  very  late  in  the  year  for  a  nightingale  t" 

"  He  is  waiting  for  his  mate.  She  is  rearing  a  late 
brood,  I  suppose." 

"  What  do  you  think  it  is  which  can  stir  him  up 
to  such  an  ecstasy  of  joy,  and  transfigure  his  whole 
heart  into  melody  ?" 

"  What  but  love,  the  fulness  of  all  joy,  the  evoker 
of  all  song  ?" 

"  All  song? — The  angels  sing  in  heaven." 

"So  they  say:  but  the  angels  must  love  if  they 
sing." 

"They  love  God!" 

"And  no  one  else?" 

"  Oh  yes  :  but  that  is  universal,  spiritual  love ;  not 
earthly  love — a  narrow  passion  for  an  individual" 

"  How  do  we  know  that  they  do  not  learn  to  love 
all  by  first  loving  one  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  angelic  life  is  single  !" 

"  Who  told  you  so,  Miss  Lavington  ?" 

She  quoted  the  stock  text,  of  course  : — "  'In  heaven 
they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  marriage,  but  arc 
as  the  angels.'" 

"'As  the  tree  falls,  so  it  lies.'  And  God  forbid 
that  those  who  have  been  true  lovers  on  earth  should 
contract  new  marriages  in  the  next  world  Love  is 


AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  129 

eternal.  Death  may  part  lovers,  but  not  love.  And 
how  do  we  know  that  these  angels,  as  they  call  them, 
if  they  be  really  persons,  may  not  be  united  in  pairs 
by  some  marriage  bond,  infinitely  more  perfect  than 
any  we  can  dream  of  on  earth1?" 

"That  is  a  very  wild  view,  Mr.  Smith,  and  not 
sanctioned  by  the  Church,"  said  Argemone,  severely. 
(Curious  and  significant  it  is,  how  severe  ladies  are 
apt  to  be  whenever  they  talk  of  the  Church.) 

"In  plain  historic  fact,  the  early  fathers  and  the 
middle -age  monks  did  not  sanction  it:  and  are  not 
they  the  very  last  persons  to  whom  one  would  go  to  be 
taught  about  marriage  ?  Strange  !  that  people  should 
take  their  notions  of  love  from  the  very  men  who 
prided  themselves  on  being  bound,  by  their  own  vows, 
to  know  nothing  about  it ! " 

"  They  were  very  holy  men." 

"But  still  men,  as  I  take  it.  And  do  you  not  see 
that  Love  is,  like  all  spiritual  things,  only  to  be  under- 
stood by  experience — by  loving  ?" 

"  But  is  love  spiritual  ?" 

"Pardon  me,  but  what  a  question  for  one  who 
believes  that  '  God  is  love  !'" 

"But  the  divines  tell  us  that  the  love  of  human 
beings  is  earthly." 

"How  did  they  know?  They  had  never  tried. 
Oh,  Miss  Lavington !  cannot  you  see  that  in  those 
barbarous  and  profligate  ages  of  the  later  empire,  it 
was  impossible  for  men  to  discern  the  spiritual  beauty 
of  marriage,  degraded  as  it  had  been  by  heathen 
K  v. 


130  THE  DRIVE  HOME, 

brutality  ?  Do  you  not  see  that  there  must  have  been 
a  continual  tendency  in  the  minds  of  a  celibate  clergy 
to  look  with  contempt,  almost  with  spite,  on  pleasures 
which  were  forbidden  to  them?" 

Another  pause. 

"  It  must  be  very  delicious,"  said  Argemone,  thought- 
fully, "for  any  one  who  believes  it,  to  think  that 
marriage  can  last  through  eternity.  But,  then,  what 
becomes  of  entire  love  to  God  ?  How  can  we  part  our 
hearts  between  him  and  his  creatures?" 

"It  is  a  sin,  then,  to  love  your  sister?  or  your 
friend  ?  What  a  low,  material  view  of  love,  to  fancy 
that  you  can  cut  it  up  into  so  many  pieces,  like  a  cake, 
and  give  to  one  person  one  tit -bit,  and  another  to 
another,  as  the  Popish  books  would  have  you  believe  ! 
Love  is  like  flame — light  as  many  fresh  flames  at  it 
as  you  will,  it  grows,  instead  of  diminishing,  by  the 
dispersion." 

"It  is  a  beautiful  imagination." 

"  But,  oh,  how  miserable  and  tantalising  a  thought, 
Miss  Lavington,  to  those  who  know  that  a  priceless 
spirit  is  near  them,  which  might  be  one  with  theirs 
through  all  eternity,  like  twin  stars  in  one  common 
atmosphere,  for  ever  giving  and  receiving  wisdom  and 
might,  beauty  and  bliss,  and  yet  are  barred  from  their 
bliss  by  some  invisible  adamantine  wall,  against  which 
they  must  beat  themselves  to  death,  like  butterflies 
against  the  window-pane,  gazing,  and  longing,  and 
unable  to  guess  why  they  are  forbidden  to  enjoy !" 

Why  did  Argemone  withdraw  her  ana  from  his? 


AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  131 

He  knew,  and  he  felt  that  she  was  entrusted  to  him. 
He  turned  away  from  the  subject. 

"I  wonder  whether  they  are  safe  home  by  this 
time?" 

"  I  hope  my  father  will  not  catch  cold.  How  sad, 
Mr.  Smith,  that  he  will  swear  so.  I  do  not  like  to 
say  it ;  and  yet  you  must  have  heard  him  too  often 
yourself." 

"It  is  hardly  a  sin  with  him  now,  I  think.  He 
has  become  so  habituated  to  it,  that  he  attaches  no 
meaning  or  notion  whatsoever  to  his  own  oaths.  I 
have  heard  him  do  it  with  a  smih'ng  face  to  the  very 
beggar  to  whom  he  was  giving  half -a- crown.  We 
must  not  judge  a  man  of  his  school  by  the  standard 
of  our  own  day." 

"  Let  us  hope  so,"  said  Argemone,  sadly. 

There  was  another  pause.  At  a  turn  of  the  hill  road 
the  black  masses  of  beech-wood  opened,  and  showed 
the  Priory  lights  twinkling  right  below.  Strange  that 
Argemone  felt  sorry  to  find  herself  so  near  home. 

"We  shall  go  to  town  next  week,"  said  she;  "and 

then You  are  going  to  Norway  this  summer,  are 

you  not?" 

"  No.    I  have  learnt  that  my  duty  lies  nearer  home." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  I  wish  this  summer,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
to  try  and  do  some  good — to  examine  a  little  into  the 
real  condition  of  English  working  men." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Smith,  that  I  did  not  teach  you 
that  duty." 


132       THE  DRIVE  HOME,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT. 

"  Oh,  you  have  taught  me  priceless  things !  You 
have  taught  me  beauty  is  the  sacrament  of  heaven, 
and  love  its  gate ;  that  that  which  is  the  most  luscious 
is  also  the  most  pure." 

"  But  I  never  spoke  a  word  to  you  on  such  subjects." 

"There  are  those,  Miss  Lavington,  to  whom  a 
human  face  can  speak  truths  too  deep  for  books." 

Argemone  was  silent;  but  she  understood  him. 
Why  did  she  not  withdraw  her  arm  a  second  time  1 

In  a  moment  more  the  colonel  hailed  them  from 
the  dog-cart  and  behind  him  came  the  britschka  with 
a  relay  of  servants. 

They  parted  with  a  long,  lingering  pressure  of  the 
hand,  which  haunted  her  young  palm  all  night  in 
dreams.  Argemone  got  into  the  carriage,  Lancelot 
jumped  into  the  dog-cart,  took  the  reins,  and  relieved 
his  heart  by  galloping  Sandy  up  the  hill,  and  frighten- 
ing the  returning  coachman  down  one  bank  and  his 
led  horses  up  the  other. 

"  Vogue  la  Galhe,  Lancelot  ?  I  hope  you  have 
made  good  use  of  your  time  1" 

But  Lancelot  spoke  no  word  all  the  way  home,  and 
wandered  till  dawn  in  the  woods  around  his  cottage, 
kissing  the  hand  which  Argemone's  palm  had  pressed. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

WHITHER  ? 

SOME  three  months  slipped  away — right  dreary  months 
for  Lancelot,  for  the  Lavingtons  went  to  Baden-Baden 
for  the  summer.  "The  waters  were  necessary  for 
their  health."  .  .  .  How  wonderful  it  is,  by-the-bye, 
that  those  German  Brunnen  are  never  necessary  for 
poor  people's  health !  .  .  .  and  they  did  not  return 
till  the  end  of  August.  So  Lancelot  buried  himself 
up  to  the  eyes  in  the  Condition-of-the-Poor  question — 
that  is,  in  blue  book's,  red  books,  sanitary  reports, 
mine  reports,  factory  reports ;  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion, which  is  now  pretty  generally  entertained, 
that  something  was  the  matter — but  what,  no  man 
knew,  or,  if  they  knew,  thought  proper  to  declare. 
Hopeless  and  bewildered,  he  left  the  books,  and 
wandered  day  after  day  from  farm  to  hamlet,  and 
from  field  to  tramper's  tent,  in  hopes  of  finding  out 
the  secret  for  himself.  What  he  saw,  of  course  I  must 
not  say ;  for  if  I  did  the  reviewers  would  declare,  as 
usual,  one  and  all,  that  I  copied  out  of  the  Morning 
Chronicle ;  and  the  fact  that  these  pages,  ninety-nine 
hundredths  of  them  at  least,  were  written  two  years 


134  WHITHER  ? 

before  the  Morning  Chronicle  began  its  invaluable 
investigations,  would  be  contemptuously  put  aside  as 
at  once  impossible  and  arrogant  I  shall  therefore 
only  say,  that  he  saw  what  every  one  else  has  seen,  at 
least  heard  of,  and  got  tired  of  hearing — though  alas  ! 
they  have  not  got  tired  of  seeing  it ;  and  so  proceed 
with  my  story,  only  mentioning  therein  certain  parti- 
culars which  folks  seem,  to  me,  somewhat  strangely, 
to  have  generally  overlooked. 

But  whatever  Lancelot  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  I 
cannot  say  that  it  brought  him  any  nearer  to  a  solu- 
tion of  the  question  ;  and  he  at  last  ended  by  a  sulky 
acquiescence  in  Sam  Weller's  memorable  dictum  : 
"  Who  it  is  I  can't  say ;  but  all  I  can  say  is  that  some- 
body ought  to  be  wopped  for  this  ! " 

But  one  day,  turning  over,  as  hopelessly  as  he  was 
beginning  to  turn  over  everything  else,  a  new  work 
of  Mr.  Carlyle's,  he  fell  on  some  such  words  as  these : — 

"  The  beginning  and  the  end  of  what  is  the  matter 
with  us  in  these  days  is — that  ice  Juive  forgotten  God" 

Forgotten  God?  That  was  at  least  a  defect  of 
which  blue  books  had  taken  no  note.  And  it  was  one 
which,  on  the  whole — granting,  for  the  sake  of  argu- 
ment, any  real,  living,  or  practical  existence  to  That 
Being,  might  be  a  radical  one — it  brought  him  many 
hours  of  thought,  that  saying ;  and  when  they  were 
over,  he  rose  up  and  went  to  find — Tregarva. 

"  Yes,  he  is  the  man.  Ho  is  the  only  man  with 
whom  I  have  ever  met,  of  whom  I  could  bo  sure,  that 
independent  of  his  own  interest,  without  the  allure- 


WHITHER?  135 

ments  of  respectability  and  decency,  of  habit  and 
custom,  he  believes  in  God.  And  he  too  is  a  poor 
man;  he  has  known  the  struggles,  temptations,  sorrows 
of  the  poor.  I  will  go  to  him." 

But  as  Lancelot  rose  to  find  him,  there  was  put 
into  his  hand  a  letter,  which  kept  him  at  home  a 
while  longer  —  none  other,  in  fact,  than  the  long- 
expected  answer  from  Luke. 

"WELL,  MY  DEAR  COUSIN  —  You  may  possibly 
have  some  logical  ground  from  which  to  deny  Popery, 
if  you  deny  all  other  religions  with  it ;  but  how  those 
who  hold  any  received  form  of  Christianity  whatsoever 
can  fairly  side  with  you  against  Rome,  I  cannot  see. 
I  am  sure  I  have  been  sent  to  Rome  by  them,  not 
drawn  thither  by  Jesuits.  Not  merely  by  their  de- 
fects and  inconsistencies ;  not  merely  because  they  go 
on  taunting  us,  and  shrieking  at  us  with  the  cry  that 
we  ought  to  go  to  Rome,  till  we  at  last,  wearied  out, 
take  them  at  their  word,  and  do  at  their  bidding  the 
thing  we  used  to  shrink  from  with  terror — not  this 
merely  but  the  very  doctrines  we  hold  in  common 
with  them,  have  sent  me  to  Rome.  For  would  these 
men  have  known  of  them  if  Rome  had  not  been? 
The  Trinity  —  the  Atonement  —  the  Inspiration  of 
Scripture. — A  future  state — that  point  on  which  the 
present  generation,  without  a  smattering  of  psychologi- 
cal science,  without  even  the  old  belief  in  apparitions, 
dogmatises  so  narrowly  and  arrogantly — what  would 
they  have  known  of  them  but  for  Rome  ?  And  she 


136  WHITHER  ? 

says  there  are  three  realms  in  the  future  state  .  .  . 
heaven,  hell,  and  purgatory  .   .  .  What  right  have 
they  to  throw  away  the  latter,  and  arbitrarily  retain 
the  two  former  ?    I  am  told  that  Scripture  gives  no 
warrant  for  a  third  state.     She  says  that  it  does — that 
it  teaches  that  implicitly,  as  it  teaches  other,  the  very 
highest  doctrines ;  some  hold,  the  Trinity  itself.  .  .  . 
It  may  be  proved  from  Scripture ;  for  it  may  be  proved 
from  the  love  and  justice  of  God  revealed  in  Scripture. 
The  Protestants  divide — in  theory,  that  is — mankind 
into  two  classes,  the  righteous,  who  are  destined  to 
infinite  bliss ;  the  wicked,  who  are  doomed  to  infinite 
torment;  in  which  latter  class,  to  make  their  arbitrary 
division  exhaustive,  they  put  of  course  nine  hundred 
and  ninety -nine  out  of  the  thousand,  and  doom  to 
everlasting  companionship  with  Borgias  and  Caglios- 
tros,  the  gentle,  frivolous  girl,  or  the  peevish  boy,  who 
would  have  shrunk,  in  life,  with  horror  from  the  con- 
tact .  .  .  Well,  at  least,  their  hell  is  hellish  enough. 
...  if  it  were  but  just.  .  .  .  But  I,  Lancelot,  I  can- 
not believe  it !  I  will  not  believe  it !     I  had  a  brother 
once — affectionate,  simple,  generous,  full   of    noble 
aspirations — but  without,  alas !   a  thought  of  God  ; 
yielding  in  a  hundred  little  points,  and  some  great 
ones,  to  the  infernal  temptations  of  a  public  school 
...    He  died  at  seventeen.      Where  is  he  nowl 
Lancelot !   where  is  he  now  1    Never  for  a  day  has 
that  thought  left  my  mind  for  years.     Not  in  heaven 
— for  he  has  no  right  there ;  Protestants  would  say 
that  as  well  as  I.  ...   Where,  then  ?— Lancelot ! 


WHITHER  ?  137 

not  in  that  other  place.  I  cannot,  I  will  not  believe 
it.  For  the  sake  of  God's  honour,  as  well  as  of  my 
own  sanity,  I  will  not  believe  it !  There  must  be 
some  third  place — some  intermediate  chance,  some 
door  of  hope — some  purifying  and  redeeming  process 
beyond  the  grave.  .  .  .  Why  not  a  purifying  fire? 
Ages  of  that  are  surely  punishment  enough — and  if 
there  be  a  fire  of  hell,  why  not  a  fire  of  purgatory  ? 
.  .  .  After  all,  the  idea  of  purgatory  as  a  fire  is  only 
an  opinion,  not  a  dogma  of  the  church.  .  .  .  But  if 
the  gross  flesh  which  has  sinned  is  to  be  punished 
by  the  matter  which  it  has  abused,  why  may  it  not 
be  purified  by  it  1 

"  You  may  laugh,  if  you  will,  at  both,  and  say  again, 
as  I  have  heard  you  say  ere  now,  that  the  popular 
Christian  paradise  and  hell  are  but  a  Pagan  Olympus 
and  Tartarus,  as  grossly  material  as  Mahomet's,  with- 
out the  honest  thorough -going  sexuality,  which  you 
thought  made  his  notion  logical  and  consistent.  .  .  . 
Well,  you  may  say  that,  but  Protestants  cannot ;  for 
their  idea  of  heaven  and  ours  is  the  same — with  this 
exception,  that  theirs  will  contain  but  a  thin  band  of 
saved  ones,  while  ours  will  fill  and  grow  to  all  eternity. 
...  I  tell  you,  Lancelot,  it  is  just  the  very  doctrines 
for  which  England  most  curses  Eome,  and  this  very 
purgatory  at  the  head  of  them,  which  constitute  her 
strength  and  her  allurement;  which  appeal  to  the 
reason,  the  conscience,  the  heart  of  men,  like  me,  who 
have  revolted  from  the  novel  superstition  which  looks 
pitilessly  on  at  the  fond  memories  of  the  brother,  the 


138  WHITHER? 

prayers  of  the  orphan,  the  doubled  desolation  of  the 
widow,  with  its  cold  terrible  assurance,  '  There  is  no 
hope  for  thy  loved  and  lost  ones — no  hope,  but  hell 
for  evermore  ! ' " 

"  I  do  not  expect  to  convert  you.  You  have  your 
metempsychosis,  and  your  theories  of  progressive  in- 
carnation, and  your  monads,  and  your  spirits  of  the 
stars  and  flowers.  I  have  not  forgotten  a  certain  talk 
of  ours  over  Falk  Von  Muller's  '  Recollections  of 
Goethe,'  and  how  you  materialists  are  often  the  most 
fantastic  of  theorists.  ...  I  do  not  expect,  I  say,  to 
convert  you.  I  only  want  to  show  you  there  is  no 
use  trying  to  show  the  self-satisfied  Pharisees  of  the 
popular  sect — why,  in  spite  of  all  their  curses,  men 
still  go  back  to  Rome." 

Lancelot  read  this,  and  re-read  it ;  and  smiled,  but 
sadly — and  the  more  he  read,  the  stronger  its  argu- 
ments seemed  to  him,  and  he  rejoiced  thereat  For 
there  is  a  bad  pleasure — happy  he  who  has  not  felt 
it  —  in  a  pitiless  reductio  ad  absurdum,  which  asks 
tauntingly,  "Why  do  you  not  follow  out  your  own 
conclusions?" — instead  of  thanking  God  that  people 
do  not  follow  them  out,  and  that  their  hearts  are 
sounder  than  their  heads.  Was  it  with  this  feeling 
that  the  fancy  took  possession  of  him,  to  show  the 
letter  to  Tregarva  ?  I  hope  not — perhaps  he  did  not 
altogether  wish  to  lead  him  into  temptation,  any  more 
than  I  wish  to  lead  my  readers,  but  only  to  make  him, 
just  as  I  wish  to  make  them,  face  manfully  a  real 


WHITHER?  139 

awful  question  now  racking  the  hearts  of  hundreds, 
and  see  how  they  will  be  able  to  answer  the  sophist 
fiend — for  honestly,  such  he  is — when  their  time 
conies,  as  come  it  will.  At  least  he  wanted  to  test 
at  once  Tregarva's  knowledge  and  his  logic.  As  for 
his  "  faith,"  alas !  he  had  not  so  much  reverence  for  it 
as  to  care  what  effect  Luke's  arguments  might  have 
there.  "The  whole  man,"  quoth  Lancelot  to  himself, 
"is  a  novel  phenomenon ;  and  all  phenomena,  however 
magnificent,  are  surely  fair  subjects  for  experiment. 
Magendie  may  have  gone  too  far,  certainly,  in  dissects 
ing  a  live  dog — but  what  harm  in  my  pulling  the 
mane  of  a  dead  lion  1" 

So  he  showed  the  letter  to  Tregarva  as  they  were 
fishing  together  one  day — for  Lancelot  had  been  in- 
stalled duly  in  the  Whitf  ord  trout  preserves — Tregarva 
read  it  slowly ;  asked,  shrewdly  enough,  the  meaning 
of  a  word  or  two  as  he  went  on ;  at  last  folded  it  up 
deliberately,  and  returned  it  to  its  owner  with  a  deep 
sigh.  Lancelot  said  nothing  for  a  few  minutes ;  but 
the  giant  seemed  so  little  inclined  to  open  the  conver- 
sation, that  he  was  forced  at  last  to  ask  him  what  he 
thought  of  it. 

"  It  isn't  a  matter  for  thinking,  sir,  to  my  mind — 
There's  a  nice  fish  on  the  feed  there,  just  over-right 
that  alder." 

"  Hang  the  fish !    Why  not  a  matter  for  thinking  1" 

"To  my  mind,  sir,  a  man  may  think  a  deal  too 
much  about  many  matters  that  come  in  his  way." 

"What  should  he  do  with  them,  then?" 


140  WHITHER? 

"Mind  his  own  business." 

"  Pleasant  for  those  whom  they  concern  ! — That's 
rather  a  cold-blooded  speech  for  you,  Tregarva  ! " 

The  Cornishman  looked  up  at  him  earnestly.  His 
eyes  were  glittering — was  it  with  tears  ? 

"  Don't  fancy  I  don't  feel  for  the  poor  young  gentle- 
man— God  help  him  ! — I've  been  through  it  all — or 
not  through  it,  that's  to  say.  I  had  a  brother  once, 
as  fine  a  young  fellow  as  ever  handled  pick,  as  kind- 
hearted  as  a  woman,  and  as  honest  as  the  sun  in 
heaven. — But  he  would  drink,  sir;— that  one  tempta- 
tion, he  never  could  stand  it  And  one  day  at  the 
shaft's  mouth,  reaching  after  the  kibble-chain — maybe 
he  was  in  liquor,  maybe  not — the  Lord  knows ; 
but " 

"I  didn't  know  him  again,  sir,  when  we  picked 

him  up,  any  more  than "  and  the  strong  man 

shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  and  beat  impatiently  on 
the  ground  with  his  heavy  heel,  as  if  to  crush  down 
the  rising  horror. 

"Where  is  he,  sir?" 

A  long  pause. 

"  Do  you  think  I  didn't  ask  that,  sir,  for  years  and 
years  after,  of  God,  and  my  own  soul,  and  heaven  and 
earth,  and  the  things  under  the  earth,  too?  For 
many  a  night  did  I  go  down  that  mine  out  of  my  turn, 
and  sat  for  hours  in  that  level,  watching  and  watch- 
ing, if  perhaps  the  spirit  of  him  might  haunt  about, 
and  tell  his  poor  brother  one  word  of  news — one  way 
or  the  other — anything  would  have  been  a  comfort — 


WHITHEK?  141 

but  the  doubt  I  couldn't  bear.  And  yet  at  last  I 
learnt  to  bear  it — and  what's  more,  I  learnt  not  to 
care  for  it.  It's  a  bold  word — there's  one  who  knows 
whether  or  not  it  is  a  true  one." 

"  Good  heavens  ! — and  what  then  did  you  say  to 
yourself?" 

"  I  said  this,  sir — or  rather,  one  came  as  I  was  on 
my  knees,  and  said  it  to  me — What's  done  you  can't 
mend.  What's  left,  you  can.  Whatever  has  happened 
is  God's  concern  now,  and  none  but  His.  Do  you  see 
that  as  far  as  you  can  no  such  thing  ever  happen  again, 
on  the  face  of  His  earth.  And  from  that  day,  sir,  I 
gave  myself  up  to  that  one  thing,  and  will  until  I  die, 
to  save  the  poor  young  fellows  like  myself,  who  are 
left  now-a-days  to  the  Devil,  body  and  soul,  just 
when  they  are  in  the  prime  of  their  power  to  work 
for  God." 

"Ah  !"  said  Lancelot — "if  poor  Luke's  spirit  were 
but  as  strong  as  yours ! " 

"I  strong?"  answered  he,  with  a  sad  smile;  "and 
so  you  think,  sir.  But  it's  written,  and  it's  true — 
'  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness.'" 

"  Then  you  absolutely  refuse  to  try  to  fancy  your 
— his  present  state  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  because  if  I  did  fancy  it,  that  would  be 
a  certain  sign  I  didn't  know  it.  If  we  can't  conceive 
what  God  has  prepared  for  those  that  we  know  loved 
Him,  how  much  less  can  we  for  them  of  whom  we 
don't  know  whether  they  loved  Him  or  not?" 

"Well,"  thought  Lancelot  to  himself,  "I  did  not 


142  WHITHER  ? 

do  so  very  wrong  in  trusting  your  intellect  to  cut 
through  a  sophism." 

"  But  what  do  you  believe,  Tregarva  ?" 

"  I  believe  this,  sir — and  your  cousin  will  believe 
the  same,  if  he  will  only  give  up,  as  I  am  sore  afraid 
he  will  need  to  some  day,  sticking  to  arguments  and 
doctrines  about  the  Lord,  and  love  and  trust  the  Lord 
himself.  I  believe,  sir,  that  the  judge  of  all  the  earth 
will  do  right — and  what's  right  can't  be  wrong,  nor 
cruel  either,  else  it  would  not  be  like  Him  who  loved 
us  to  the  death,  that's  all  I  know ;  and  that's  enough 
for  me.  To  whom  little  is  given,  of  him  is  little 
required.  He  that  didn't  know  his  Master's  will,  will 
be  beaten  with  few  stripes,  and  he  that  did  know  it, 
as  I  do,  will  be  beaten  with  many,  if  he  neglects  it — 
and  that  latter,  not  the  former,  is  my  concern." 

"  Well,"  thought  Lancelot  to  himself,  "  this  great 
heart  has  gone  down  to  the  root  of  the  matter — the 
right  and  wrong  of  it  He,  at  least,  has  not  forgotten 
God.  Well,  I  would  give  up  all  the  Teleologies  and 
cosmogonies  that  I  ever  dreamt  or  read,  just  to  believe 
what  he  believes — Heigho  and  well-a-day  ! — Paul ! 
hist  1  I'll  swear  that  was  an  otter ! " 

"I  hope  not,  sir,  I'm  sure.  I  haven't  seen  the 
spraint  of  one  here  this  two  years." 

"There  again — don't  you  see  something  move 
under  that  marl  bank  ?" 

Tregarva  watched  a  moment,  and  then  ran  up  to 
the  spot,  and  throwing  himself  on  his  face  on  the 
edge,  leant  over,  grappled  something—  and  was  in- 


WHITHER?  143 

stantly,  to  Lancelot's  astonishment,  grappled  in  his 
turn  by  a  rough,  lank,. white  dog,  whose  teeth,  how- 
ever, could  not  get  through  the  velveteen  sleeve. 

"  I'll  give  in,  keeper !  I'll  give  in.  Doan't  ye  harm 
the  dog !  he's  deaf  as  a  post,  you  knows." 

"  I  won't  harm  him  if  you  take  him  off,  and  come 
up  quietly." 

This  mysterious  conversation  was  carried  on  with 
a  human  head,  which  peeped  above  the  water,  its 
arms  supporting  from  beneath  the  growling  cur — such 
a  visage  as  only  worn-out  poachers,  or  trampling 
drovers,  or  London  chiffonniers  carry;  pear-shaped 
and  retreating  to  a  narrow  peak  above,  while  below, 
the  bleared  cheeks,  and  drooping  lips,  and  peering 
purblind  eyes,  perplexed,  hopeless,  defiant,  and  yet 
sneaking,  bespeak  their  share  in  the  ''inheritance  of 
the  kingdom  of  heaven." — Savages  without  the  re- 
sources of  a  savage — slaves  without  the  protection  of 
a  master — to  whom  the  cart-whip  and  the  rice-swamp 
would  be  a  change  for  the  better — for  there,  at  least, 
is  food  and  shelter. 

Slowly  and  distrustfully  a  dripping  scarecrow  of 
rags  and  bones  rose  from  his  hiding-place  in  the  water, 
and  then  stopped  suddenly,  and  seemed  inclined  to 
dash  through  the  river ;  but  Tregarva  held  him  fast. 

"  There's  two  on  ye !  That's  a  shame !  I'll  sur- 
render to  no  man  but  you,  Paul.  Hold  off,  or  I'll  set 
the  dog  on  ye  ! " 

"It's  a  gentleman  fishing.  He  won't  tell — will 
you,  sir?"  And  he  turned  to  Lancelot.  "Have  pity 


144  WHITHER? 

on  the  poor  creature,  sir,  for  God's  sake — it  isn't  often 
he  gets  it" 

"  I  won't  tell,  my  man.  I've  not  seen  you  doing 
any  harm.  Conie  out  like  a  man,  and  let's  have  a 
look  at  you." 

The  creature  crawled  up  the  bank,  and  stood,  ab- 
ject and  shivering,  with  the  dog  growling  from  between 
his  legs. 

"  I  was  only  looking  for  a  kingfisher's  nest :  indeed 
now,  I  was,  Paul  Tregarva," 

"  Don't  lie,  you  were  setting  night-lines.  I  saw  a 
minnow  lie  on  the  bank  as  I  came  up.  Don't  lie ;  I 
hate  liars." 

"Well  indeed,  then — a  man  must  live  somehow." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  live  by  this  trade,  my  friend," 
quoth  Lancelot ;  "  I  cannot  say  it  seems  a  prosperous 
business,  by  the  look  of  your  coat  and  trousers." 

"  That  Tim  Goddard  stole  all  my  clothes,  and  no 
good  may  they  do  him ;  last  time  as  I  went  to  gaol  I 
gave  them  him  to  kep,  and  he  went  off  for  a  navvy 
meantime  ;  so  there  I  am." 

"  If  you  will  play  with  the  dogs,"  quoth  Tregarva, 
"you  know  what  you  will  be  bit  by.  Haven't  I 
warned  you  1  Of  course  you  won't  prosper :  as  you 
make  your  bed,  so  you  must  lie  in  it.  The  Lord  can't 
be  expected  to  let  those  prosper  that  forget  Him. 
What  mercy  would  it  be  to  you  if  He  did  let  you 
prosper  by  setting  snares  all  church-time,  as  you  were 
last  Sunday,  instead  of  going  to  church  1" 

"I  say,   Paul   Tregarva,  I've  told  you  my  mind 


WHITHER?  145 

about  that  afore.  If  I  don't  do  what  I  knows  to  be 
right  and  good  already,  there  ain't  no  use  in  me  a 
damning  myself  all  the  deeper  by  going  to  church  to 
hear  more." 

"  God  help  you  !"  quoth  poor  Paul. 

"Now,  I  say,"  quoth  Crawy,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  took  the  whole  thing  as  a  matter  of  course,  no 
more  to  be  repined  at  than  the  rain  and  wind — "what 
be  you  a  going  to  do  with  me  this  time  1  I  do  hope 
you  won't  have  me  up  to  bench.  'Tain't  a  month 
now  as  I'm  out  o'  prizzum  along  o'  they  fir-toppings, 

and  I  should,  you  see "  with  a  look  up  and  down 

and  round  at  the  gay  hay -meadows,  and  the  fleet 
water,  and  the  soft  gleaming  clouds,  which  to  Lancelot 
seemed  most  pathetic, — "  I  should  like  to  ha'  a  spell 
o'  fresh  air,  like,  afore  I  goes  in  again." 

Tregarva  stood  over  him  and  looked  down  at  him, 
like  'some  huge  stately  bloodhound  on  a  trembling 
mangy  cur.  "  Good  heavens  ! "  thought  Lancelot,  as 
his  eye  wandered  from  the  sad  steadfast  dignity  of  the 
one,  to  the  dogged  helpless  misery  of  the  other — "  can 
those  two  be  really  fellow -citizens?  fellow-Chris- 
tians'?— even  animals  of  the  same  species'?  Hard  to 
believe !" 

True,  Lancelot ;  but  to  quote  you  against  yourself, 
Bacon,  or  rather  the  instinct  which  taught  Bacon, 
teaches  you  to  discern  the  invisible  common  law 
under  the  deceitful  phenomena  of  sense. 

"I  must  have  those  night-lines,  Crawy,"  quoth 
Tregarva,  at  length. 

L  Y. 


146  WHITHER? 

"Then  I  must  starva  You  might  ever  so  well 
take  away  the  dog.  They're  the  life  of  me." 

"They're  the  death  of  you.  AVhy  don't  you  go 
and  work,  instead  of  idling  about,  stealing  trout?" 

"  Be  you  a  laughing  at  a  poor  fellow  in  his  trouble  ? 
Who'd  gie  me  a  day's  work,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  It's 
twenty  year  too  late  for  that !" 

Lancelot  stood  listening.  Yes,  that  wretch,  too, 
was  a  man  and  a  brother — at  least  so  books  used  to 
say.  Time  was,  when  he  had  looked  on  a  poacher 
as  a  Pariah  "hostem  humani  generis" — and  only 
deplored  that  the  law  forbade  him  to  shoot  them 
down,  like  cats  and  otters;  but  he  had  begun  to 
change  his  mind. 

He  had  learnt,  and  learnt  rightly,  the  self-indul- 
gence, the  danger,  the  cruelty,  of  indiscriminate  alms. 
It  looked  well  enough  in  theory,  on  paper.  "  But — 
but — but,"  thought  Lancelot,  "in  practice,  one  "can't 
help  feeling  a  little  of  that  un-economic  feeling  called 
pity.  No  doubt  the  fellow  has  committed  an  unpar- 
donable sin  in  daring  to  come  into  the  world  when 
there  was  no  call  for  him ;  one  used  to  think,  certainly, 
that  children's  opinions  were  not  consulted  on  such 
points  before  they  were  born,  and  that  therefore  it 
might  be  hard  to  visit  the  sins  of  the  fathers  on  the 
children,  even  though  the  labour-market  were  a  little 
overstocked — 'mais  nous  avons  chang6  tout  cela,'  like 
M.  Jourdain's  doctors.  No  doubt,  too,  the  fellow 
might  have  got  work  if  he  had  chosen — in  Kams- 
chatka  or  the  Cannibal  Islands ;  for  the  political 


WHITHEE?  H7 

economists  have  proved,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  there 
is  work  somewhere  or  other  for  every  one  who  chooses 
to  work.  But  as,  unfortunately,  society  has  neglected 
to  inform  him  of  the  state  of  the  Cannibal  Island 
labour-market,  or  to  pay  his  passage  thither  when 
informed  thereof,  he  has  had  to  choose  in  the  some- 
what limited  labour -field  of  the  Whitford  Priors' 
union,  whose  workhouse  is  already  every  winter  filled 
with  abler-bodied  men  than  he,  between  starvation — 

and  this .    Well,  as  for  employing  him,  one  would 

have  thought  that  there  was  a  little  work  waiting  to 
be  done  in  those  five  miles  of  heather  and  snipe-bog, 
which  I  used  to  tramp  over  last  winter — but  those,  it 
seems,  are  still  on  the  'margin  of  cultivation,'  and 
not  a  remunerative  investment — that  is,  to  capitalists. 
I  wonder  if  any  one  had  made  Crawy  a  present  of  ten 
acres  of  them  when  he  came  of  age,  and  commanded 
him  to  till  that  or  be  hanged,  whether  he  would  not 
have  found  it  a  profitable  investment  ?  But  bygones 
are  bygones,  and  there  he  is,  and  the  moors,  thanks 
to  the  rights  of  property — in  this  case  the  rights  of 
the  dog  in  the  manger — belong  to  poor  old  Lavington 
— that  is,  the  game  and  timber  on  them ;  and  neither 
Crawy  nor  any  one  else  can  touch  them.  What  can 
I  do  for  him?  Convert  him1?  to  what?  For  the 
next  life,  even  Tregarva's  talisman  seems  to  fail. 
And  for  this  life — perhaps  if  he  had  had  a  few  more 
practical  proofs  of  a  divine  justice  and  government — 
that  '  kingdom  of  heaven '  of  which  Luke  talks,  in  the 
sensible  bodily  matters  which  he  does  appreciate,  he 


148  WHITHER  ? 

might  not  be  so  unwilling  to  trust  to  it  for  tho  in- 
visible spiritual  matters  which  he  does  not  appreciate. 
At  all  events,  one  has  but  one  chance  of  winning 
him,  and  that  is,  through  those  five  senses  which  lie 
has  left  What  if  he  does  spend  the  money  in  gross 
animal  enjoyment  1  What  will  the  amount  of  it  be, 
compared  with  the  animal  enjoyments  which  my 
station  allows  me  daily  without  reproach?  A  little 
more  bacon — a  little  more  beer — a  little  more  tobacco; 
at  all  events  they  will  be  more  important  to  lu'm  than 
a  pair  of  new  boots  or  an  extra  box  of  cigars  to  me." 
— And  Lancelot  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  pulle-l 
out  a  sovereign.  No  doubt  he  was  a  great  goose; 
but  if  you  can  answer  his  arguments,  reader,  I  cannot 

"  Look  here — what  are  your  nightrlines  worth  ?" 

"  A  matter  of  seven  shilling ;  ain't  they  now,  Paul 
Tregarva?" 

"I  should  suppose  they  are." 

"Then  do  you  give  me  the  lines,  one  and  all, 
and  there's  a  sovereign  for  you. — No,  I  can't  trust  you 
with  it  all  at  once.  I'll  give  it  to  Tregarva,  and  ho 
.shall  allow  you  four  shillings  a  week  as  long  as  it 
lasts,  if  you'll  promise  to  keep  off  Squire  Lavingtou's 
river." 

It  was  pathetic,  and  yet  disgusting,  to  see  the 
abject  joy  of  the  poor  creature.  "Well,"  thought 
I.imcrlot,  "if  he  deserves  to  bo  wretched,  so  do  I — 
why,  therefore,  if  wo  are  one  as  bad  as  the  otluT, 
sliniild  I  not  make  his  wretchedness  a  little  less  for 
tho  time  being?" 


WHITHEE  ?  149 

"  I  waint  come  a-near  the  water.  You  trust  me — 
I  minds  them  as  is  kind  to  me" — and  a  thought 
seemed  suddenly  to  lighten  up  his  dull  intelligence. 

"  I  say,  Paul,  hark  you  here.  I  see  that  Bantam 
into  D  *  *  *  t'other  day." 

"What !  is  he  down  already  1" 

"With  a  dog  -  cart ;  he  and  another  of  his  pals; 
and  I  see  'em  take  out  a  silk  flue,  I  did.  So,  says  I, 
you  maunt  be  trying  that  ere  along  o'  the  Whitford 
trout ;  they  kepers  is  out  o'  nights  so  sure  as  the 
moon." 

"You  didn't  know  that.     Lying  again  !" 

"No,  but  I  sayed  it  in  course.  I  didn't  want  they 
a-robbing  here;  so  I  think  they  worked  mainly  up 
Squire  Vaurien's  water." 

"I  wish  I'd  caught  them  here,"  quoth  Tregarva, 
grimly  enough ;  "  though  I  don't  think  they  came,  or 
I  should  have  seen  the  track  on  the  banks." 

"But  he  sayed  like,  as  how  he  should  be  down 
here  again  about  pheasant  shooting." 

"Trust  him  for  it.  Let  us  know,  now,  if  you  see 
him." 

"  And  that  I  will,  too.  I  wouldn't  save  a  feather 
for  that  'ere  old  rascal,  Harry.  If  the  devil  don't 
have  he,  I  don't  see  no  use  in  keeping  no  devil.  But 
I  minds  them  as  has  mercy  on  me,  though  my  name 
is  Crawy.  Ay,"  he  added,  bitterly,  "'tain't  so  many 
kind  turns  as  I  gets  in  this  life,  that  I  can  afford  to 
forget  e'er  a  one."  And  he  sneaked  off,  with  the 
deaf  dog  at  his  heels. 


150  WHITHER? 

"How  did  that  fellow  get  his  name,  Tregarva?" 
"Oh,  most  of  them  have  nicknames  round  here. 
Some  of  them  hardly  know  their  owYi  real  names,  sir." 
("A  sure  sign  of  low  civilisation,"  thought  Lancelot) 
"  But  he  got  his  a  foolish  way ;  and  yet  it  was  the 
ruin  of  him.  When  he  was  a  boy  of  fifteen,  he  got 
miching  away  in  church-time,  as  boys  will,  and  took 
off  his  clothes  to  get  in  somewhere  here  in  this  very 
river,  groping  in  the  banks  after  craw -fish;  and  as 
the  devil — for  I  can  think  no  less — would  have  it,  a 
big  one  catches  hold  of  him  by  the  fingers  with  one 
claw,  and  a  root  with  the  other,  and  holds  him  there 
till  Squire  Lavington  comes  out  to  take  his  walk  after 
church,  and  there  he  caught  the  boy,  and  gave  him  a 
thrashing  there  and  then,  naked  as  he  stood.  And 
the  story  got  wind,  and  all  the  chaps  round  called 
him  Crawy  ever  afterwards,  and  the  poor  fellow  got 
quite  reckless  from  that  day,  and  never  looked  any 
one  in  the  face  again ;  and  being  ashamed  of  himself, 
you  see,  sir,  was  never  ashamed  of  anything  else — 
and  there  he  is.  That  dog's  his  only  friend,  and  gets 
a  livelihood  for  them  both.  It's  growing  old  now; 
and  when  it  dies,  he'll  starve." 

"  Well — the  world  has  no  right  to  blame  him  for 
not  doing  his  duty,  till  it  has  done  its  own  by  him  a 
little  better." 

"  But  the  world  will,  sir,  l>ccausc  it  hates  its  duty, 
and  cries  all  day  long,  like  Cain,  '  Am  I  my  brother's 
keeper  1"' 

"Do  you  think  it  knows  its  duty?    I  have  found 


WHITHER?  151 

it  easy  enough  to  see  that  something  is  diseased, 
Tregarva;  but  to  find  the  medicine  first,  and  to 
administer  it  afterwards,  is  a  very  different  matter." 

"Well — I  suppose  the  world  will  never  be  mended 
till  the  day  of  judgment." 

"  In  plain  English,  not  mended  till  it  is  destroyed. 
Hopeful  for  the  poor  world  !  I  should  fancy,  if  I  be- 
lieved that,  that  the  devil  in  the  old  history — which 
you  believe — had  had  the  best  of  it  with  a  vengeance, 
when  he  brought  sin  into  the  world,  and  ruined  it.  I 
dare  not  believe  that.  How  dare  you,  who  say  that 
God  sent  His  Son  into  the  world  to  defeat  the  devil  1" 

Tregarva  was  silent  a  while. 

"Learning  and  the  Gospel  together  ought  to  do 
something,  sir,  towards  mending  it.  One  would  think 
so.  But  the  prophecies  are  against  that." 

"As  folks  happen  to  read  them  just  now.  A 
hundred  years  hence  they  may  be  finding  the  very 
opposite  meaning  in  them.  Come,  Tregarva, — Sup- 
pose I  teach  you  a  little  of  the  learning,  and  you  teach 
me  a  little  of  the  Gospel — do  you  think  we  two  could 
mend  the  world  between  us,  or  even  mend  Whitford 
Priors'?" 

"God  knows,  sir,"  said  Tregarva. 

"Tregarva,"  said  Lancelot,  as  they  were  landing 
the  next  trout,  "  where  will  that  Crawy  go.  when  he 
dies?" 

"  God  knows,  sir,"  said  Tregarva. 


152  WHITHER? 

Lancelot  went  thoughtful  home,  and  sat  down — 
not  to  answer  Luke's  letter — for  he  knew  no  answer 
but  Tregarva's,  and  that,  alas  !  he  could  not  give,  for 
Le  did  not  believe  it,  but  only  longed  to  believe  it 
So  he  turned  off  the  subject  by  a  question — 

"  You  speak  of  yourself  as  being  already  a  member 
of  the  Romish  communion.  How  is  this  1  Have  you 
given  up  your  curacy  1  Have  you  told  your  father  1 
I  fancy  that  if  you  had  done  so  I  must  have  heard 
of  it  ere  now.  I  entreat  you  to  tell  me  the  state  of 
the  case,  for,  heathen  as  I  am,  I  am  still  an  English- 
man; and  there  are  certain  old  superstitions  still 
lingering  among  us — whencesoever  we  may  have  got 
them  first — about  truth  and  common  honesty — you 
understand  me. — 

"Do  not  be  angry.  But  there  is  a  prejudice 
against  the  truthfulness  of  Romish  priests  and  Romish 
converts. — It's  no  affair  of  mine.  I  see  quite  enough 
Protestant  rogues  and  liars,  to  prevent  my  having  any 
pleasure  in  proving  Romanists,  or  any  other  persons, 
rogues  and  liars  also.  But  I  am — if  not  fond  of  you 
— at  least  sufficiently  fond  to  be  anxious  for  your 
good  name.  You  used  to  be  an  open-hearted  fellow 
enough.  Do  prove  to  the  world  that  ccelum,  non 
animum  mutant,  qui  trans  mare  cumin t" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HARRY  VERNEY  HEARS  HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIRED. 

THE  day  after  the  Lavingtons'  return,  when  Lancelot 
walked  up  to  the  Priory  with  a  fluttering  heart  to 
inquire  after  all  parties,  and  see  one,  he  found  the 
squire  in  a  great  state  of  excitement 

A  large  gang  of  poachers,  who  had  come  down 
from  London  by  rail,  had  been  devastating  all  the 
covers  round,  to  stock  the  London  markets  by  the 
first  of  October,  and  intended,  as  Tregarva  had  dis- 
covered, to  pay  Mr.  Lavington's  preserves  a  visit  that 
night.  They  didn't  care  for  country  justices,  not 
they.  Weren't  all  their  fines  paid  by  highly  respect- 
able game -dealers  at  the  West  End?  They  owned 
three  dog -carts  among  them;  a  parcel  by  railway 
would  bring  them  down  bail  to  any  amount;  they 
tossed  their  money  away  at  the  public-houses,  like 
gentlemen;  thanks  to  the  Game  Laws,  their  profits 
ran  high,  and  when  they  had  swept  the  country 
pretty  clean  of  game,  why,  they  would  just  finish  off 
the  season  by  a  stray  highway  robbery  or  two,  and 
vanish  into  Babylon  and  their  native  night. 


154  HARRY  VERNEY  HEARS 

Such  was  Harry  Verney's  information  as  he  strutted 
about  the  courtyard  waiting  for  the  squire's  orders. 

"But  they've  put  their  nose  into  a  furze-bush, 
Muster  Smith,  they  have.  We've  got  our  posse-com- 
montaturs,  fourteen  men,  sir,  as'll  play  the  whole  vale 
to  cricket,  and  whap  them ;  and  every  one '11  fight,  for 
they're  half  poachers  themselves,  you  see  "  (and  Harry 
winked  and  chuckled) ;  "  and  they  can't  abide  no 
interlopers  to  come  down  and  take  the  sport  out  of 
their  mouths." 

"  But  are  you  sure  they'll  come  to-night  1" 

"  That  'ere  Paul  says  so.  Wonder  how  ho  found 
out — some  of  his  underhand,  colloguing,  Methodist 
ways,  I'll  warrant  I  seed  him  preaching  to  that  'ere 
Crawy,  three  or  four  times  when  he  ought  to  have 
hauled  him  up.  He  consorts  with  them  poachers,  sir, 
uncommon.  I  hope  he  ben't  one  himself,  that's  all" 

"  Nonsense,  Harry !" 

"Oh?  Eh]  Don't  say  old  Harry  don't  know 
nothing,  that's  all.  I've  fixed  his  flint,  anyhow." 

"Ah  !  Smith  !"  shouted  the  squire  out  of  his  study 
window,  with  a  cheerful  and  appropriate  oath.  "  The 
very  man  I  wanted  to  see  !  You  must  lead  these 
keepers  for  me  to-night  They  always  fight  better 
with  a  gentleman  among  them.  Breeding  tells,  you 
know — breeding  tells." 

Lancelot  felt  a  strong  disgust  at  the  occupation, 
but  ho  was  under  too  many  obligations  to  the  squire 
to  refuse. 

"  Ay,  I  knew  you  were  game,"  said  the  old  man. 


HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIKED.  155 

"  And  you'll  find  it  capital  fun.  I  used  to  think  it 
so,  I  know,  when  I  was  young.  Many  a  shindy  have 
I  had  here  in  my  uncle's  time,  under  the  very  windows, 
before  the  chase  was  disparked,  when  the  fellows  used 
to  come  down  after  the  deer." 

Just  then  Lancelot  turned  and  saw  Argemone 
standing  close  to  him.  He  almost  sprang  towards 
her — and  retreated,  for  he  saw  that  she  had  overheard 
the  conversation  between  him  and  her  father. 

"What !  Mr.  Smith  !"  said  she  in  a  tone  in  which 
tenderness  and  contempt,  pity  and  affected  careless- 
ness, were  strangely  mingled.  "  So  !  you  are  going 
to  turn  gamekeeper  to-night  ?" 

Lancelot  was  blundering  out  something,  when  the 
squire  interposed. 

"  Let  her  alone,  Smith.  Women  will  be  tender- 
hearted, you  know.  Quite  right — but  they  don't 
understand  these  things.  They  fight  with  their 
tongues,  and  we  with  our  fists  ;  and  then  they  fancy 
their  weapons  don't  hurt — Ha  !  ha !  ha ! " 

"  Mr.  Smith,"  said  Argemone,  in  a  low,  determined 
voice,  "if  you  have  promised  my  father  to  go  on  this 
horrid  business — go.  But  promise  me,  too,  that  you 
will  only  look  on,  or  I  will  never " 

Argemone  had  not  time  to  finish  her  sentence 
before  Lancelot  had  promised  seven  times  over,  and 
meant  to  keep  his  promise,  as  we  all  do. 

About  ten  o'clock  that  evening  Lancelot  and  Tre- 
garva  were  walking  stealthily  up  a  ride  in  one  of  the 
home-covers,  at  the  head  of  some  fifteen  fine  young 


156  HARRY  VERNEY  HEARS 

fellows,  keepers,  grooms,  and  not  extempore  "watchers," 
whom  old  Harry  was  marshalling  and  tutoring,  with 
exhortations  as  many  and  as  animated  as  if  their 
ambition  was  "  Mourir  pour  la  patrie." 

"  How  does  this  sort  of  work  suit  you,  Tregarva, 
for  I  don't  like  it  at  all !  The  fighting's  all  very  well, 
but  it's  a  poor  cause." 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  have  no  mercy  on  these  Londoners.  If 
it  was  these  poor  half -starved  labourers,  that  snare 
the  same  hares  that  have  been  eating  up  their  garden- 
stuff  all  the  week,  I  can't  touch  them,  sir,  and  that's 

truth ;  but  these  ruffians And  yet,  sir,  wouldn't 

it  be  better  for  the  parsons  to  preach  to  them,  than 
for  the  keepers  to  break  their  heads'?" 

"Oh?"  said  Lancelot,  "the  parsons  say  all  to 
them  that  they  can." 

Tregarva  shook  his  head. 

"  I  doubt  that,  sir.  But,  no  doubt,  there's  a  great 
change  for  the  better  in  the  parsons.  I  remember 
the  time,  sir,  that  there  wasn't  an  earnest  clergyman 
in  the  vale ;  and  now  every  other  man  you  meet  is 
trying  to  do  his  best  But  those  London  parsons,  sir, 
what's  the  matter  with  them  ?  For  all  their  societies 
and  their  schools,  the  devil  seems  to  keep  a-head  of 
them  sadly.  I  doubt  they  haven't  found  the  right  Hy 
yet  for  publicans  and  sinners  to  rise  at" 

A  distant  shot  in  the  cover. 

"There  they  are,  sir.  I  thought  that  Crawy 
wouldn't  lead  me  false  when  I  let  him  off." 

"Well,  fight  away,  then,  ami  win.      I  have  pro- 


HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIRED.  157 

mised  Miss  Lavington  not  to  lift  a  hand  in  the 
business." 

"  Then  you're  a  lucky  man,  sir.  But  the  squire's 
game  is  his  own,  and  we  must  do  our  duty  by  our 
master." 

There  was  a  rustle  in  the  bushes,  and  a  tramp  of 
feet  on  the  turf. 

"  There  they  are,  sir,  sure  enough.  The  Lord  keep 
us  from  murder  this  night ! "  And  Tregarva  pulled 
off  his  neckcloth,  and  shook  his  huge  limbs,  as  if  to 
feel  that  they  were  all  in  their  places,  in  a  way  that 
augured  ill  for  the  man  who  came  across  him. 

They  turned  the  corner  of  a  ride,  and,  in  an  in- 
stant, found  themselves  face  to  face  with  five  or  six 
armed  men,  with  blackened  faces,  who,  without  speak- 
ing a  word,  dashed  at  them,  and  the  fight  began ; 
reinforcements  came  up  on  each  side,  and  the  engage- 
ment became  general. 

' '  The  forest-laws  were  sharp  and  stem, 

The  forest  blood  was  keen, 
They  lashed  together  for  life  and  death 
Beneath  the  hollies  green. 

"  The  metal  good  and  the  walnut- wood 

Did  soon  in  splinters  flee  ; 
They  tossed  the  orts  to  south  and  north, 
And  grappled  knee  to  knee. 

"  They  wrestled  up,  they  wrestled  down, 

They  wrestled  still  and  sore  ; 
The  herbage  sweet  beneath  their  feet 
"Was  stamped  to  mud  and  gore." 

And  all  the  while  the  broad  still  moon  stared  down 


158  HARRY  VERNEY  HEARS 

on  them  grim  and  cold,  as  if  with  a  saturnine  sneer 
at  the  whole  humbug ;  and  the  silly  birds  about  whom 
all  this  butchery  went  on,  slept  quietly  over  their 
heads,  every  one  with  his  head  under  his  wing.     Of 
if  pheasants  had  but  understanding,  how  they  would/ 
split  their  sides  with  chuckling  and  crowing  at  the 
follies  which  civilised  Christian  men  perpetrate 
their  precious  sake  ! 

Had  I  the  pen  of  Homer  (though  they  say  he  never 
used  one),  or  even  that  of  the  worthy  who  wasted 
precious  years  in  writing  a  Homer  ]inrl<'*jufd,  what 
heroic  exploits  might  not  I  immortalise !  In  every 
stupid  serf  and  cunning  ruffian  there,  there  was  a  heart 
as  brave  as  Ajax's  own ;  but  then  they  fought  with 
sticks  instead  of  lances,  and  hammered  away  on  fus- 
tian jackets  instead  of  brazen  shields  ;  and,  therefore, 
poor  fellows,  they  were  beneath  "the  dignity  of 
poetry,"  whatever  that  may  mean.  If  one  of  your\ 
squeamish  "  dignity -of -poetry  "  critics  had  just  had 
his  head  among  the  gun-stocks  for  five  minutes  that 
night,  he  would  have  found  it  grim  tragic  earnest 
enough ;  not  without  a  touch  of  fun  though,  here  and—/ 
there. 

Laiudot  leant  against  a  tree  and  watched  the  riot 
with  foldt-'il  arm-,  mindful  of  his  promise  to-AxgeniQiie, 
ami  riivir.l  Tiv-ana  as  he  huilr.l  hi-  a— ailaiit-  ii-lit 
and  left  with  immense  strength,  ami  K-d  tin-  van  of 
battle  royally.  Little  would  Argemone  have  valued 
the  real  proof  of  love  which  he  was  giving  her  as  he 
looked  on  sulkily,  while  his  fingers  tingled  with  long- 


HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIRED.  159 

ing  to  be  up  and  doing.  Strange — that  mere  lust 
of  fighting,  common  to  man  and  animals,  whose  traces 
even  the  lamb  and  the  civilised  child  evince  in  their 
mock -fights,  the  earliest  and  most  natural  form  of 
play.  Is  it,  after  all,  the  one  human  propensity  which 
is  utterly  evil,  incapable  of  being  turned  to  any  right- 
eous use  ?  Gross  and  animal,  no  doubt  it  is,  but  not 
the  less  really  pleasant,  as  every  Irishman  and  many 
an  Englishman  knows  well  enough.  A  curious  irf7 
stance  of  this,  by-the-by,  occurred  in  Paris  during  the! 
February  Eevolution.  A  fat  English  coachman  went 
out,  from  mere  curiosity,  to  see  the  fighting.  As  he 
stood  and  watched,  a  new  passion  crept  over  him; 
he  grew  madder  and  madder  as  the  bullets  whistled 
past  him ;  at  last,  when  men  began  to  drop  by  his 
side,  he  could  stand  it  no  longer,  seized  a  musket, 
and  rushed  in,  careless  which  side  he  took, — 

"  To  drink  delight  of  battle  with  his  peers." 

He  was  not  heard  of  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  they 
found  him  stiff  and  cold,  lying  on  his  face  across  a 
barricade,  with  a  bullet  through  his  heart.  Sedentary 
persons  may  call  him  a  sinful  fool  Be  it  so.  Homo 
sum :  humani  nihil  a  me  alienum  puto. 

Lancelot,  I  verily  believe,  would  have  kept  his 
promise,  though  he  saw  that  the  keepers  gave  ground, 
finding  Cockney  skill  too  much  for  their  clumsy 
strength;  but  at  last  Harry  Verney,  who  had  been 
fighting  as  venomously  as  a  wild  cat,  and  had  been 
once  before  saved  from  a  broken  skull  by  Tregarva, 


160          HARRY  VERNEY  HEARS 

rolled  over  at  his  very  feet  with  a  couple  of  poachers 

"  You  won't  see  an  old  man  murdered,  Mr.  Smith?" 
cried  he,  imploringly. 

incelot  tore  the  ruffians  off  the  old  man  right 
and  left.  One  of  them  struck  him  ;  he  returned  the 
blow  ;  and,  in  an  instant,  promises  and  Argemone, 
philosophy  and  anti-game-law  prejudices,  were  swept 
out  of  his  head,  and  "  ho  went,"  as  the  old  romances 
say,  "hurling  into  the  midst  of  the  press,"  as  mere  a 
wild  animal  for  the  moment  as  angry  bull  or  boar. 
An  instant  afterwards,  though,  ho  burst  out  laughing, 
in  spite  of  himself,  as  "  The  Battersea  Bantam,"  who 
had  been  ineffectually  dancing  round  Tregarva  like  a 
gamecock  spurring  at  a  bull,  turned  off  with  a  voice 
of  ineffable  disgust,  — 

"  That  big  cove's  a  yokel  j  ta'nt  creditable  to  waste 
science  on  him.  You're  my  man,  if  you  please,  sir," 
—  and  the  little  wiry  lump  of  courage  and  conceit, 
rascality  and  good  humour,  flew  at  Lancelot,  who  was 
twice  his  size,  "with  a  heroism  worthy  of  a  better 
cause,"  as  respectable  papers^  when  they  are  not  too 


"Do  you  want  any  more?"  asked  Lancelot 
"  Quite  a  pleasure,  sir,  to  meet  a  scientific  genlman. 
Beg  your  pardon,  sir  ;  stay  a  moment  while  I  wipes 
my  face.     Now,  sir,  time,  if  you  please." 

Alas  for  the  little  man  !     in  another  moment  he 
tumbled  over  and  lay  senseless  —  Lancelot  thought  ho 


HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIRED.  161 

had  killed  him.  The  gang  saw  their  champion  fall, 
gave  ground,  and  limped  off,  leaving  three  of  their 
party  groaning  on  the  ground,  beside  as  many  Whit- 
ford  men. 

As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  so  is  it  to  be  to  the 
end,  my  foolish  brothers  !  From  the  poacher  to 
the  prime  minister — wearying  yourselves  for  very 
vanity !  The  soldier  is  not  the  only  man  in  Eng- 
land who  is  fool  enough  to  be  shot  at  for  a  shilling 
a  day. 

But  while  all  the  rest  were  busy  picking  up  the 
wounded  men  and  securing  the  prisoners,  Harry 
Verney  alone  held  on,  and  as  the  poachers  retreated 
slowly  up  the  ride,  he  followed  them,  peering  into 
the  gloom,  as  if  in  hopes  of  recognising  some  old 
enemy. 

"Stand  back,  Harry  Verney;  we  know  you,  and 
we'd  be  loth  to  harm  an  old  man,"  cried  a  voice  out 
of  the  darkness. 

"  Eh  1  Do  you  think  old  Harry'd  turn  back  when 
he  was  once  on  the  track  of  ye  ?  You  soft-fisted,  gin- 
drinking,  counter-skipping  Cockney  rascals,  that  fancy 
you're  to  carry  the  county  before  you,  because  you 
get  your  fines  paid  by  London-tradesmen  !  Eh  1  What 
do  you  take  old  Harry  for  ?" 

"Go  back,  you  old  fool!"  and  a  volley  of  oaths 
followed.  "If  you  follow  us,  we'll  fire  at  you,  as 
sure  as  the  moon's  in  heaven  ! " 

"Fire  away,  then!  I'll  follow  you  to !"  and 

the  old  man  paced  stealthily  but  firmly  up  to  them. 

M  Y. 


162  HARRY  VERXEY  HEARS 

Tregarva  saw  his  danger  and  sprang  forward,  but 
it  was  too  late. 

"  What,  you  will  have  it,  then  1" 

A  sharp  crack  followed, — a  bright  flash  in  the 
darkness — every  white  birch-stem  and  jagged  oak-leaf 
shone  out  for  a  moment  as  bright  as  day — and  in 
front  of  the  glare  Lancelot  saw  the  old  man  throw 
his  arms  wildly  upward,  fall  forward,  and  disappear 
on  the  dark  ground. 

"  You've  done  it !  off  with  you  ! "  And  the  rascals 
rushed  off  up  the  ride. 

In  a  moment  Tregarva  was  by  the  old  man's  side, 
and  lifted  him  tenderly  up. 

"  They've  done  for  me,  Paul  Old  Harry's  got  his 
gruel  He's  heard  his  last  shot  fired.  I  knowed  it 
'ud  come  to  this,  and  I  said  it.  Eh  1  Didn't  I,  now, 
Paul  ?"  And  as  the  old  man  spoke,  the  workings  of 
his  lungs  pumped  great  jets  of  blood  out  over  the 
still  heather-flowers  as  they  slept  in  the  moonshine, 
and  dabbled  them  with  smoking  gore. 

"  Here,  men,"  shouted  the  colonel,  "  up  with  him 
at  once,  and  home  !  Here,  put  a  brace  of  your  guns 
together,  muzzle  and  lock.  Help  him  to  sit  on  them, 
Lancelot  There,  Harry,  put  your  arms  round  their 
necks.  Tregarva,  hold  him  up  behind.  Now  then, 
men,  left  legs  foremost — keep  step — march!"  And 
they  moved  off  towards  the  Priory. 

"  You  seem  to  know  everything,  colonel,"  said 
Lancelot 

The  colonel  did  not  answer  for  a  moment 


HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIRED.  163 

"  Lancelot,  I  learnt  this  dodge  from  the  only  friend 
I  ever  had  in  .the  world,  or  ever  shall  have ;  and  a 
week  after  I  marched  him  home  to  his  death-bed  in 
this  very  way." 

"Paul  —  Paul  Tregarva,"  whispered  old  Harry, 
"put  your  head  down  here  :  wipe  my  mouth,  there's 
a  man;  it's  wet,  uncommon  wet."  It  was  his  own 
life-blood.  "I've  been  a  beast  to  you,  Paul.  I've 
hated  you,  and  envied  you,  and  tried  to  ruin  you. 
And  now  you've  saved  my  life  once  this  night ;  and 
here  you  be  a-nursing  of  me  as  my  own  son  might  do, 
if  he  was  here,  poor  fellow  !  I've  ruined  you,  Paul ; 
the  Lord  forgive  me  !" 

"Pray!  pray!"  said  Paul,  "and  He  will  forgive 
you.  He  is  all  mercy.  He  pardoned  the  thief  on 
the  cross " 

"No,  Paul,  no  thief, — not  so  bad  as  that,  I  hope, 
anyhow ;  never  touched  a  feather  of  the  squire's. 
But  you  dropped  a  song,  Paul,  a  bit  of  writing." 

Paul  turned  pale. 

"  And — the  Lord  forgive  me ! — I  put  it  in  the 
squire's  fly-book" 

"The  Lord  forgive  you!  Amen!"  said  Paul, 
solemnly. 

"Wearily  and  slowly  they  stepped  on  towards  the 
old  man's  cottage.  A  messenger  had  gone  on  before, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  squire,  Mrs.  Lavington,  and 
the  girls,  were  round  the  bed  of  their  old  retainer. 

They  sent  off  right  and  left  for  the  doctor  and  the 
vicar ;  the  squire  was  in  a  frenzy  of  rage  and  grief. 


1C4  HARRY  VERNEY  HEARS 

"Don't  take  on,  master,  don't  take  on,"  said  old 
Harry,  as  he  lay;  while  the  colonel  and  Honoria  in 
vain  endeavoured  to  stanch  the  wound.  "  I  knowed 
it  would  l)c  so,  sooner  or  later  ;  'tis  all  in  the  way  of 
business.  They  haven't  carried  oft'  a  bird,  squiro,  not 
a  bird  ;  we  was  too  many  for  'em — eh,  Paul,  eh  ?" 

''Where  is  that  cursed  doctor?"  said  the  squire. 
"  Save  him,  colonel,  save  him ;  and  I'll  give  you — 

Alas  !  the  charge  of  shot  at  a  few  feet  distance  had 
entered  like  a  bullet,  tearing  a  great  ragged  hole. — 
There  was  no  hope,  and  the  colonel  knew  it ;  but  he 
said  nothing. 

"The  second  keeper,"  sighed  Argemone,  "  who  has 
been  killed  here  !  Oh,  Mr.  Smith,  must  this  be  ?  Is 
God's  blessing  on  all  this?" 

Lancelot  said  nothing.  The  old  man  lighted  up  at 
Argemone's  voice. 

"There's  the  beauty,  there's  the  pride  of  Whitford. 
And  sweet  Miss  Honor,  too, — so  kind  to  nurse  a  poor 
old  man  !  But  she  never  would  let  him  teach  her  to 
catch  perch,  would  she  ?  She  was  always  too  tender- 
hearted. Ah,  squire,  when  we're  dead  and  gone, — 
dead  and  gone, — squire,  they'll  be  the  pride  of  Whit- 
ford  still !  And  they'll  keep  up  the  old  place — won't 
you,  my  darlings  ?  And  the  old  name,  too  !  For, 
you  know,  there  must  always  be  a  Lavington  in  Whit- 
ford  Priors,  till  the  Nun's-pool  runs  up  to  Ashy  Down." 

"And  a  curse  u]>on  the  Lavingtons,"  sighed  Arge- 
mone to  herself  in  an  under-tone. 

Lancelot  heard  what  ahe  said. 


HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIRED.  165 

The  vicar  entered,  but  he  was  too  late.  The  old 
man's  strength  was  failing,  and  his  mind  began  to 
wander. 

"  Windy,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "  windy,  dark 
and  windy — birds  won't  lie — not  old  Harry's  fault. 
How  black  it  grows  !  We  must  be  gone  by  nightfall, 
squire.  Where's  that  young  dog  gone?  Arter  the 
larks,  the  brute." 

Old  Squire  Lavington  sobbed  like  a  child. 

"You  will  soon  be  home,  my  man,"  said  the  vicar. 
"Remember  that  you  have  a  Saviour  in  heaven.  Cast 
yourself  on  His  mercy." 

Harry  shook  his  head. 

"  Very  good  words,  very  kind, — very  heavy  game- 
bag,  though.  Never  get  home,  never  any  more  at  all. 
Where's  my  boy  Tom  to  carry  it  ?  Send  for  my  boy 
Tom.  He  was  always  a  good  boy  till  he  got  along 
with  them  poachers." 

"Listen,"  he  said,  "listen!  There's  bells  a-ringing 
— ringing  in  my  head.  Come  you  here,  Paul  Tregarva. " 

He  pulled  Tregarva's  face  down  to  his  own,  and 
whispered, — 

"  Them's  the  bells  a-ringing  for  Miss  Honor's 
wedding." 

Paul  started  and  drew  back.  Harry  chuckled  and 
grinned  for  a  moment  in  his  old  foxy,  peering  way, 
and  then  wandered  off  again. 

"What's  that  thumping  and  roaring?"  Alas!  it 
was  the  failing  pulsation  of  his  own  heart.  "It's  the 


166      HARRY  VERNEY  HEARS  HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIRED, 

weir,  the  weir — a-washing  me  away — thundering  over 
me. — Squire,  I'm  drowning, — drowning  and  choking! 
Oh,  Lord,  how  deep !  Now  it's  running  quieter — now 
I  can  breathe  again — swift  and  oily — running  on, 
running  on,  down  to  the  sea.  See  how  the  grayling 
sparkle !  There's  a  pike !  'Taiu't  my  fault,  squire, 

so  help  me Don't  swear,  now,  squire;  old  men 

and  dying  maun't  swear,  squire.  How  steady  the 
river  runs  down  !  Lower  and  slower  —  lower  and 
slower:  now  it's  quite  still — still still — 

His  voice  sank  away — he  was  dead  ! 

No !  once  more  the  light  flashed  up  in  the  socket 
He  sprang  upright  in  the  bed,  and  held  out  his  withered 
paw_with  a  kind  of  wild  majesty,  as  he  shouted, — 

"  There  ain't  such  a  head  of  hares  on  any  manor  in 
the  county.  And  them's  the  last  words  of  Harry 
Vcrney!" 

He  fell  back— shuddered — a  rattle  in  his  throat — 
another — and  all  was  over. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"MURDER  WILL  OUT,"  AND  LOVE  TOO. 

ARGEMONE  need  never  have  known  of  Lancelot's  share 
in  the  poaching  affray ;  but  he  dared  not  conceal  any- 
thing from  her.  And  so  he  boldly  went  up  the  next 
day  to  the  Priory,  not  to  beg  pardon,  but  to  justify 
himself,  and  succeeded.  And,  before  long,  he  found 
himself  fairly  installed  as  her  pupil,  nominally  in 
spiritual  matters,  but  really  in  subjects  of  which  she 
little  dreamed. 

Every  day  he  came  to  read  and  talk  with  her,  and 
whatever  objections  Mrs.  Lavington  expressed  were 
silenced  by  Argemone.  She  would  have  it  so,  and 
her  mother  neither  dared  nor  knew  how  to  control 
her.  The  daughter  had  utterly  out -read  and  out- 
thought  her  less  educated  parent,  who  was  clinging 
in  honest  bigotry  to  the  old  forms,  while  Argemone 
was  wandering  forth  over  the  chaos  of  the  strange 
new  age, — a  poor  homeless  Noah's  dove,  seeking  rest 
for  the  sole  of  her  foot  and  finding  none.  And  now 
all  motherly  influence  and  sympathy  had  vanished, 
and  Mrs.  Lavington,  in  fear  and  wonder,  let  her 
daughter  go  her  own  way.  She  could  not  have  done 


168  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

better,  perhaps ;  for  Providence  had  found  for  Arge- 
mone  a  better  guide  than  her  mother  could  have  done, 
and  her  new  pupil  was  rapidly  becoming  her  teacher. 
She  was  matched,  for  the  first  time,  with  a  man  who 
was  her  own  equal  in  intellect  and  knowledge ;  and 
she  felt  how  real  was  that  sexual  difference  wlu'ch  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  consider  as  an  insolent 
calumny  against  woman.  Proudly  and  indignantly 
she  struggled  against  the  conviction,  but  in  vain. 
Again  and  again  she  argued  with  him,  and  was  van- 
quished,— or,  at  least,  what  is  far  better,  made  to  see 
how  many  different  sides  there  are  to  every  question. 
All  appeals  to  authority  he  answered  with  a  con- 
temptuous smile.  "The  best  authorities?"  he  used 
to  say.  "  On  what  question  do  not  the  best  author- 
ities flatly  contradict  each  other?  And  why?  Because 
every  man  believes  just  what-  it  suits  him  to  believe. 
Don't  fancy  that  men  reason  themselves  into  convic- 
tions ;  the  prejudices  and  feelings  of  their  hearts  give 
them  some  idea  or  theory,  and  then  they  find  facts 
at  their  leisure  to  prove  their  theory  true.  Every 
man  sees  facts  through  narrow  spectacles,  red,  or 
green,  or  blue,  as  his  nation  or  his  temperament 
colours  them  :  and  he  is  quite  right,  only  he  must 
allow  us  the  liberty  of  having  our  spectacles  too. 
Authority  is  only  good  for  proving  facts.  We  must 
draw  our  own  conclusions."  And  Argemone  began 
to  suspect  that  he  was  i  i_lit. — at  least  to  see  that  her 
opinions  were  mere  hearsays,  picked  up  at  her  own 
will  and  fancy ;  while  his  were  living,  daily-growing 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  169 

ideas.  Her  mind  was  beside  his  as  the  vase  of  cut 
flowers  by  the  side  of  the  rugged  tree,  whose  roots  are 
feeding  deep  in  the  mother  earth.  In  him  she  first 
learnt  how  one  great  truth  received  into  the  depths 
of  the  soul  germinates  there,  and  bears  fruit  a  thou- 
sandfold; explaining,  and  connecting,  and  glorifying 
innumerable  things,  apparently  the  most  unlike  and 
insignificant ;  and  daily  she  became  a  more  reverent 
listener,  and  gave  herself  up,  half  against  her  will  and 
conscience,  to  the  guidance  of  a  man  whom  she  knew 
to  be  her  inferior  in  morals  and  in  orthodoxy.  She 
had  worshipped  intellect,  and  now  it  had  become  her 
tyrant;  and  she  was  ready  to  give  up  every  belief 
which  she  once  had  prized,  to  flutter  like  a  moth 
round  its  fascinating  brilliance. 

Who  can  blame  her,  poor  girl?  For  Lancelot's 
humility  was  even  more  irresistible  than  his  eloquence. 
He  assumed  no  superiority.  He  demanded  her  assent 
to  truths,  not  because  they  were  his  opinions,  but 
simply  for  the  truth's  sake ;  and  on  all  points  which 
touched  the  heart  he  looked  up  to  her  as  infallible 
and  inspired.  In  questions  of  morality,  of  taste,  of 
feeling,  he  listened  not  as  a  lover  to  his  mistress,  but 
rather  as  a  baby  to  its  mother ;  and  thus,  half  uncon- 
sciously to  himself,  he  taught  her  where  her  true 
kingdom  lay, — that  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 
enshrines  the  priceless  pearl  of  womanhood,  the  ora- 
cular jewel,  the  "Urim  and  Thummim,"  before  which 
gross  man  can  only  inquire  and  adore. 

And,  in  the  meantime,  a  change  was  passing  upon 


170  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

Lancelot  His  morbid  vanity — that  brawl-begotten 
child  of  struggling  self-conceit  and  self-disgust — was 
vanishing  away ;  and  as  Mr.  Tennyson  says  in  one  of 
those  priceless  idyls  of  his,  before  which  the  shade  of 
Theocritus  must  hide  his  diminished  head, — 

11  He  was  altered,  and  began 

To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 
And  with  the  certain  step  of  man." 

He  had,  at  last,  found  one  person  who  could  appre- 
ciate him.  And  in  deliberate  confidence  he  set  to 
work  to  conquer  her,  and  make  her  his  own.  It  was 
a  traitorous  return,  but  a  very  natural  one.  And  she, 
sweet  creature !  walked  straight  into  the  pleasant 
snare,  utterly  blind,  because  she  fancied  that  she  saw 
clearly.  In  the  pride  of  her  mysticism,  she  had 
fancied  herself  above  so  commonplace  a  passion  as 
•lova  It  was  a  curious  feature  of  lower  humanity, 
which  she  might  investigate  and  analyse  harmlessly 
as  a  cold  scientific  spectator ;  and,  in  her  mingled 
pride  and  purity,  she  used  to  indulge  Lancelot  in 
metaphysical  disquisitions  about  love  and  beauty,  like 
that  first  one  in  their  walk  home  from  Minchampstead, 
from  which  a  less  celestially  innocent  soul  would  have 
shrunk  She  thought,  forsooth,  as  the  old  proverb 
says,  that  she  could  deal  in  honey,  without  putting 
her  hand  to  her  mouth.  But  Lancelot  knew  better, 
and  marked  her  for  his  own.  And  daily  his  self- 
confidence  and  sense  of  rightful  power  developed,  and 
with  them,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  the  bitterest 
self-abasement  The  contact  of  her  stainless  inno- 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  171 

cence,  the  growing  certainty  that  the  destiny  of  that 
innocence  was  irrevocably  bound  up  with  his  own, 
made  him  shrink  from  her  whenever  he  remembered 
his  own  guilty  career.  To  remember  that  there  were 
passages  in  it  which  she  must  never  know — that  she 
would  cast  him  from  her  with  abhorrence  if  she  once 
really  understood  their  vileness  1  To  think  that,  amid 
all  the  closest  bonds  of  love,  there  must  for  ever  be 
an  awful,  silent  gulf  in  the  past,  of  which  they  must 
never  speak  ! — That  she  would  bring  to  him  what  he 
could  never,  never  bring  to  her ! — The  thought  was 
unbearable.  And  as  hideous  recollections  used  to 
rise  before  him,  devilish  caricatures  of  his  former  self, 
mopping  and  mowing  at  him  in  his  dreams,  he  would 
start  from  his  lonely  bed,  and  pace  the  room  for  hours, 
or  saddle  his  horse,  and  ride  all  night  long  aimlessly 
through  the  awful  woods,  vainly  trying  to  escape 
himself.  How  gladly,  at  those  moments,  he  would 
have  welcomed  centuries  of  a  material  hell,  to  escape 
from  the  more  awful  spiritual  hell  within  him, — to 
buy  back  that  pearl  of  innocence  which  he  had  cast 
recklessly  to  be  trampled  under  the  feet  of  his  own 
swinish  passions !  But,  no ;  that  which  was  done 
could  never  be  undone, — never,  to  all  eternity.  And 
more  than  once,  as  he  wandered  restlessly  from  one 
room  to  another,  the  barrels  of  his  pistols  seemed 
to  glitter  with  a  cold,  devilish  smile,  and  call  to 
him, — 

"Come  to  us !  and  with  one  touch  of  your  finger, 
send  that  bursting  spirit  which  throbs  against  your 


172  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

brow  to  flit  forth  free,  and  nevermore  to  defile  her 
purity  by  your  presence  !" 

But  no,  again  :  a  voice  within  seemed  to  command 
him  to  go  on,  and  claim  her,  and  win  her,  spite  of  his 
own  vileness.  And  in  after  years,  slowly,  and  in  fear 
and  trembling,  he  knew  it  for  the  voice  of  God,  who 
had  been  leading  him  to  become  worthy  of  her  through 
that  bitter  shame  of  his  own  unworthiness. 

As  One  higher  than  them  would  have  it,  she  took   \ 
a  fancy  to  read  Homer  in  the  original,  and  Lancelot 
could  do  JIG  less  than  offer  his  services  as  translator.    I 
She  would  prepare  for  him  portions  of  the  Odyssey,  / 
and  every  day  that  he  came  up  to  the  Priory  he  used 
to  comment  on  it  to  her;  and  so  for  many  a  week,  in 
the  dark  wainscoted  library,  and  in  the  clipt  yew-alleys" 
of  the  old  gardens,   and  under  the  brown  autumn 
trees,  they  quarried   together  in  that  unexhausted 
mine,  among  the  records  of  the  rich  Titan-youth  of 
man.     And  step  by  step  Lancelot  opened  to  her  the 
everlasting  significance  of  the  poem ;  the  unconscious 
purity  which  lingers  in  it,  like  the  last  rays  of  tin 
Paradise  dawn ;  its  sense  of  the  dignity  of  man  as 
man  ;  the  religious  reverence  with  which  it  speaks  of 
all  human  ties,  human  strength  and  beauty,  ay,  even 
of  merely  animal  human  appetites,  as  God-given  and 
God-like   symbols.      She    could   not  but    listen   and 
;uliiiiiv,  when  lie  introduced  her  to  the  sheer  paganism 
of  Schiller's  Gods_pl_Greccc ;  for  on  this  subject   he 
was  more  rLxpimt   than  on  any.      II.-  ha-1  -i.ulu:ill\, 
in  fact>  as  we  have  seen,  dropped  all  faith  in  am  tili 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  173 

butNature  :  the  slightest  fact  about  a  bone  or  a  weed 
was  more  important  to  him  than  all  the  books  of 
divinity  which  Argemone  lent  him — to  be  laid  by 
unread. 

"  What  do  you  believe  in  1"  she  asked  him  one  day, 
sadly. 

"In  this/"  he  said,  stamping  his  foot  on  the 
ground.  "In  the  earth  I  stand  on,  and  the  things  I 
see  walking  and  growing  on  it.  There  may  be  some- 
thing beside  it — what  you  call  a  spiritual  world.  But 
if  He  who  made  me  intended  me  to  think  of  spirit 
first,  Ho  would  have  let  me  see  it  first.  Itut  as  lie 
lias  given  me  material  senses,  and  put  me  in  a  material 
world,  I  take  it  as  a  fair  hint  mat  i  am  meant  to  •  use 
those  senses  first,  whatever  may  come  after.  I  may 
be  intended  to  understand  the  unseen  world,  but  if 
so,  it  must  be,  as  I  suspect,  by  understanding  the 
visible  one :  and  there  are  enough  wonders  there  to 
occupy  me  for  some  time  to  come." 

"But  the  Bible?"  (Argemone  had  given  up  long 
ago  wasting  words  about  the  "Church.") 

"  My  only  Bible  as  yet  is  Bacon,  I  know  that  he 
is  right,  whoever  is  wrong.  If  that  Hebrew  Bible  is 
to  be  believed  by  me,  it  must  agree  with  what  I  know 
already  from  science." 

What  was  to  be  done  with  so  intractable  a  heretic  ? 
Call  him  an  infidel  and  a  Materialist,  of  course,  and 
cast  him  off  with  horror.  But  Argemone  Avas  begin- 
ning to  find  out  that,  when  people  are  really  in  earnest, 
it  may  be  better  sometimes  to  leave  God's  methods  of 


174  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

educating  them  alone,  instead  of  calling  the  poor 
honest  seekers  hard  names,  which  the  speakers  them- 
selves don't  understand. 

But  words  would  fail  sometimes,  and  in  default  of 
them  Lancelot  had  recourse  to  drawings,  and  mani- 
fested in  them  a  talent  for  thinking  in  visible  forms 
which  put  the  climax  to  all  Argemone's  wonder.  A 
single  profile,  even  a  mere  mathematical  figure,  would, 
in  his  hands,  become  the  illustration  of  a  spiritual  truth. 
And,  in  time,  every  fresh  lesson  on  the  Odyssey  was 
accompanied  by  its  illustration, — some  bold  and  simple 
outline  drawing.  In  Argemone's  eyes,  the  sketches 
were  immaculate  and  inspired;  for  their  chief,  almost 
their  only  fault,  was  just  those  mere  anatomical  slips 
which  a  woman  would  hardly  perceive,  provided  the 
fonns  were  generally  graceful  and  bold. 

One  day  his  fancy  attempted  a  bolder  flight  He 
brought  a  large  pen-and-ink  drawing,  and  laying  it 
silently  on  the  table  before  her,  fixed  his  eyes  intensely 
on  her  face.  The  sketch  was  labelled,  the  "Triumph 
of  Woman."  In  the  foreground,  to  the  right  and  left, 
were  scattered  groups  of  men,  in  the  dresses  and 
insignia  of  every  period  and  occupation.  The  distance 
showed,  in  a  few  bold  outlines,  a  dreary  desert,  broken 
by  alpine  ridges,  and  furrowed  here  and  there  by  a 
wandering  watercourse.  Long  shadows  pointed  to  the 
half -risen  sun,  whose  disc  was  climbing  above  the 
waste  horizon.  And  in  front  of  the  sun,  <l<>\vn  tin- 
path  of  the  morning  beams,  came  Woman,  clothed 
only  in  the  armour  of  her  own  loveliness.  Her  bear- 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  175 

ing  was  stately,  and  yet  modest ;  in  her  face  pensive 
tenderness  seemed  wedded  with  earnest  joy.  In  her 
right  hand  lay  a  cross,  the  emblem  of  self-sacrifice. 
Her  path  across  the  desert  was  marked  by  the  flowers 
which  sprang  up  beneath  her  steps ;  the  wild  gazelle 
stept  forward  trustingly  to  lick  her  hand ;  a  single 
wandering  butterfly  fluttered  round  her  head.  As  the 
group,  one  by  one,  caught  sight  of  her,  a  human 
tenderness  and  intelligence  seemed  to  light  up  every 
face.  The  scholar  dropt  his  book,  the  miser  his  gold, 
the  savage  his  weapons;  even  in  the  visage  of  the 
half -slumbering  sot  some  nobler  recollection  seemed 
Avistfully  to  struggle  into  life.  The  artist  caught  up 
his  pencil,  the  poet  his  lyre,  with  eyes  that  beamed 
forth  sudden  inspiration.  The  sage,  whose  broad  brow 
rose  above  the  group  like  some  torrent-furrowed  Alp, 
scathed  with  all  the  temptations  and  all  the  sorrows 
of  his  race,  watched  with  a  thoughtful  smile  that 
preacher  more  mighty  than  himself.  A  youth,  decked 
out  in  the  most  fantastic  fopperies  of  the  middle  age, 
stood  with  clasped  hands  and  brimming  eyes,  as  re- 
morse and  pleasure  struggled  in  his  face ;  and  as  he 
looked,  the  fierce  sensual  features  seemed  to  melt,  and 
his  flesh  came  again  to  him  like  the  flesh  of  a  little 
child.  The  slave  forgot  his  fetters;  little  children 
clapped  their  hands ;  and  the  toil-worn,  stunted, 
savage  woman  sprung  forward  to  kneel  at  her  feet, 
and  see  herself  transfigured  in  that  new  and  divine 
ideal  of  her  sex 

Descriptions  of  drawings  are  clumsy  things  at  best ; 


176  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

the  reader  must  fill  up  the  sketch  for  himself  by  the 
eye  of  faith. 

Entranced  in  wonder  and  pleasure,  Argemone  let 
her  eyes  wander  over  the  drawing.  And  her  feelings 
for  Lancelot  amounted  almost  to  worship,  as  she 
apprehended  the  harmonious  unity  of  the  manifold 
conception, — the  rugged  boldness  of  the  groups  in 
front,  the  soft  grandeur  of  the  figure  which  was  the 
lodestar  of  all  their  emotions.  The  virginal  purity 
of  the  whole.  And  when  she  fancied  that  she  traced 
in  those  bland  aquiline  lineaments,  and  in  the  crisp 
ringlets  which  floated  like  a  cloud  down  to  the  kiuvs 
of  the  figure,  some  traces  of  her  own  likeness,  a  dream 
of  a  new  destiny  flitted  before  her, — she  blushed  to 
her  very  neck;  and  as  she  bent  her  face  over  tin- 
drawing  and  gazed,  her  whole  soul  seemed  to  rise  into 
her  eyes,  and  a  single  tear  dropped  upon  the  paper. 
She  laid  her  hand  over  it,  and  then  turned  hastily 
away. 

"  You  do  not  like  it !  I  have  been  too  bold," — said 
Lancelot,  fearfully. 

"  Oh,  no  !  no !  It  is  so  beautiful — so  full  of  deep 
wisdom  !  But — but —  You  may  leave  it" 

Lancelot  slipped  silently  out  of  the  room,  he  hardly 
knew  why ;  and  when  he  was  gone,  Argemone  caught 
up  the  drawing,  pressed  it  to  her  bosom,  covered  it 
with  kisses,  and  hid  it,  as  too  precious  for  any  eyes 
but  her  own,  in  the  farthest  corner  of  her  secretaire. 

And  yet  she  fancied  that  she  was  not  in  love  ! 

The  vicar  saw  the  growth  of  this  intimacy  with  u 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  177 

fast -lengthening  face ;  for  it  was  very  evident  that 
Argemone  could  not  serve  two  masters  so  utterly 
contradictory  as  himself  and  Lancelot,  and  that  either 
the  lover  or  the  father-confessor  must  speedily  resign 
office.  The  vicar  had  had  great  disadvantages,  by-the- 
bye,  in  fulfilling  the  latter  function ;  for  his  visits  at  the 
Priory  had  been  all  but  forbidden;  and  Argemone's 
"spiritual  state"  had  been  directed  by  means  of  a 
secret  correspondence, — a  method  which  some  clergy- 
men, and  some  young  ladies  too,  have  discovered,  in 
the  last  few  years,  to  be  quite  consistent  with  moral 
delicacy  and  filial  obedience.  John  Bull,  like  a  stupid 
fellow  as  he  is,  has  still  his  doubts  upon  the  point ; 
but  he  should  remember  that  though  St.  Paul  tells 
women  when  they  want  advice  to  ask  their  husbands 
at  home,  yet  if  the  poor  woman  has  no  husband,  or, 
as  often  happens,  her  husband's  advice  is  unpleasant, 
to  whom  is  she  to  go  but  to  the  next  best  substitute, 
her  spiritual  cicisbeo,  or  favourite  clergyman  1  In  sad 
earnest,  neither  husband  nor  parent  deserves  pity  in 
the  immense  majority  of  such  cases.  Woman  will 
have  guidance.  It  is  her  delight  and  glory  to  be  led ; 
and  if  her  husband  or  her  parents  will  not  meet  the 
cravings  of  her  intellect,  she  must  go  elsewhere  to  find 
a  teacher,  and  run  into  the  wildest  extravagances  of 
private  judgment,  in  the  very  hope  of  getting  rid  of 
it,  just  as  poor  Argemone  had  been  led  to  do. 

And,  indeed,  she  had,  of  late,  wandered  into  very 
strange  paths :  would  to  God  they  were  as  uncommon 
as  strange  !  Both  she  and  the  vicar  had  a  great  wish 

N  Y. 


1 78  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

that  she  should  lead  a  "devoted  life ;"  but  then  they 
both  disdained  to  use  common  means  for  their  object. 
The  good  old  English  plan  of  district  visiting,  by 
which  ladies  can  have  mercy  on  the  bodies  and  souls 
of  those  below  them,  without  casting  off  the  holy  dis- 
cipline which  a  home,  even  the  most  ungenial,  alone 
supplies,  savoured  too  much  of  mere  "  Protestantism." 
It  might  be  God's  plan  for  Christianising  England 
just  now,  but  that  was  no  reason,  alas !  for  its  being 
their  plan:  they  wanted  something  more  "Catholic.'' 
more  in  accordance  with  Church  principles ;  (for, 
indeed,  is  it  not  the  business  of  the  Church  to  correct 
the  errors  of  Providence  ! )  and  what  they  sought  they 
found  at  onco  in  a  certain  favourite  establishment  of 
the  vicar's,  a  Church -of -England  Wguinage,  or  quasi- 
Protestant  nunnery,  which  he  fostered  in  a  neighbour- 
ing city,  and  went  thither  on  all  high  tides  to  confess 
the  young  ladies,  who  were  in  all  things  nuns,  but 
bound  by  no  vows,  except,  of  course,  such  as  they 
might  choose  to  make  for  themselves  in  private. 

Here  they  laboured  among  the  lowest  haunts  of 
misery  and  sin,  piously  and  self- deny ingly  enough, 
sweet  souls !  in  hope  of  "  the  peculiar  crown,"  and  a 
higher  place  in  heaven  than  the  relations  whom  they 
had  left  behind  them  "  in  the  world,"  and  unshackled 
by  the  interference  of  parents,  and  other  such  merely 
fleshly  relationships,  which,  as  they  cannot  have  been 
instituted  by  God  merely  to  bo  trampled  under  foot 
on  the  path  to  holiness,  and  cannot  well  have  insti- 
tuted themselves  (unless,  after  all,  the  Materiuli-ts 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  179 

are  right,  and  this  world  does  grind  of  itself,  except 
when  its  Maker  happens  to  interfere  once  every  thou- 
sand years),  must  needs  have  been  instituted  by  the 
devil.  And  so  more  than  one  girl  in  that  nunnery, 
and  out  of  it,  too,  believed  in  her  inmost  heart,  though 
her  "  Catholic  principles,"  by  a  happy  inconsistency, 
forbade  her  to  say  so. 

In  a  moment  of  excitement,  fascinated  by  the 
romance  of  the  notion,  Argemone  had  proposed  to 
her  mother  to  allow  her  to  enter  this  Mguinage,  and 
called  in  the  vicar  as  advocate ;  which  produced  a 
correspondence  between  him  and  Mrs.  Lavington, 
stormy  on  her  side,  provokingly  calm  on  his  :  and 
when  the  poor  lady,  tired  of  raging,  had  descended  to 
an  affecting  appeal  to  his  human  sympathies,  entreat- 
ing him  to  spare  a  mother's  feelings,  he  had  answered 
with  the  same  impassive  fanaticism,  that  "he  was 
surprised  at  her  putting  a  mother's  selfish  feelings  in 
competition  with  the  sanctity  of  her  child,"  and  that 
"had  his  own  daughter  shown  such  a  desire  for  a 
higher  vocation,  he  should  have  esteemed  it  the  very 
highest  honour;"  to  which  Mrs.  Lavington  answered, 
naively  enough,  that  "  it  depended  very  much  on  what 
his  daughter  was  like.  "• — So  he  was  all  but  forbidden 
the  house.  Nevertheless  he  contrived,  by  means  of 
this  same  secret  correspondence,  to  keep  alive  in 
Argemone's  mind  the  longing  to  turn  nun,  and  fancied 
honestly  that  lie  was  doing  God  service,  while  lie  was 
pampering  the  poor  girl's  lust  for  singularity  and  self- 
glorification. 


180  "MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

But,  lately,  Argemone's  letters  had  become  less 
frequent  and  less  confiding ;  and  the  vicar,  who  well 
knew  the  reason,  had  resolved  to  bring  the  matter  to 
a  crisis. 

So  he  wrote  earnestly  and  peremptorily  to  his 
pupil,  urging  her,  with  all  his  subtle  and  refined 
eloquence,  to  make  a  final  appeal  to  her  mother,  and 
if  that  failed,  to  act  "as  her  conscience  should  direct 
her;"  and  enclosed  an  answer  from  the  superior  of  the 
convent,  to  a  letter  which  Argemone  had  in  a  mad 
moment  asked  him  to  write.  The  superior's  letter 
spoke  of  Argemone's  joining  her  as  a  settled  matter, 
and  of  her  room  as  ready  for  her,  while  it  lauded  to 
the  skies  the  peaceful  activity  and  usefulness  of  the 
establishment.  This  letter  troubled  Argemone  ex- 
ceedingly. She  had  never  before  been  compelled  to 
face  her  own  feelings,  either  about  the  nunnery  or 
about  Lancelot  She  had  taken  up  the  fancy  of  be- 
coming a  Sister  of  Charity,  not  as  Honoria  might  have 
done,  from  genuine  love  of  the  poor,  but  from  "  a  sense 
of  duty."  Almsgiving  and  visiting  the  sick  were  one 
of  the  methods  of  earning  heaven  prescrilxjd  by  her 
new  creed.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  own  laziness  by 
the  side  of  Honoria's  simple  benevolence ;  and,  sad 
though  it  may  be  to  have  to  say  it,  she  longed  to  outdo 
her  by  some  signal  act  of  self-sacrifice.  She  had  looked 
to  this  nunnery,  too,  as  an  cscajM),  once  and  for  all, 
from  her  own  luxury,  just  as  people  who  have  not 
strength  to  be  temperate  take  refuge  in  teetotalion  ; 
and  the  thought  of  menial  services  towards  the  i>oor, 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  181 

however  distasteful  to  her,  came  in  quite  prettily  to 
fill  up  the  little  ideal  of  a  life  of  romantic  asceticisms 
and  mystic  contemplation,  which  gave  the  true  charm 
in  her  eyes  to  her  wild  project.  But  now — just  as  a 
field  had  opened  to  her  cravings  after  poetry  and  art, 
wider  and  richer  than  she  had  ever  imagined — just 
as  those  simple  child-like  views  of  man  and  nature, 
which  she  had  learnt  to  despise,  were  assuming  an 
awful  holiness  in  her  eyes — just  as  she  had  found  a 
human  soul  to  whose  regeneration  she  could  devote 
all  her  energies, — to  be  required  to  give  all  up,  perhaps 
for  ever  (and  she  felt  that  if  at  all,  it  ought  to  be  for 
ever) ; — it  was  too  much  for  her  little  heart  to  bear ; 
and  she  cried  bitterly ;  and  tried  to  pray,  and  could 
not;  and  longed  for  a  strong  and  tender  bosom  on 
which  to  lay  her  head,  and  pour  out  all  her  doubts 
and  struggles ;  and  there  was  none.  Her  mother  did 
not  understand — hardly  loved  her.  Honoria  loved 
her ;  but  understood  her  even  less  than  her  mother. 
Pride — the  pride  of  intellect,  the  pride  of  self-will, 
had  long  since  sealed  her  lips  to  her  own  family.  .  .  . 
And  then,  out  of  the  darkness  of  her  heart,  Lance- 
lot's image  rose  before  her  stronger  than  all,  tenderer 
than  all ;  and  as  she  remembered  his  magical  faculty 
of  anticipating  all  her  thoughts,  embodying  for  her  all 
her  vague  surmises,  he  seemed  to  beckon  her  towards 
him. — She  shuddered  and  turned  away.  And  now 
she  first  became  conscious  how  he  had  haunted  her 
thoughts  in  the  last  few  months,  not  as  a  soul  to  be 
saved,  but  as  a  living  man — his  face,  his  figure,  his 


182  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

voice,  his  every  gesture  and  expression,  rising  clear 
before  her,  in  spite  of  herself,  by  day  and  night 

And  then  she  thought  of  his  last  drawing,  and  the 
looks  which  had  accompanied  it, — unmistakable  looks 
of  passionate  and  adoring  love.  There  was  no  denying 
it — she  had  always  known  that  he  loved  her,  but  she 
had  never  dared  to  confess  it  to  herself.  But  now 
the  earthquake  was  come,  and  all  the  secrets  of  her 
heart  burst  upward  to  the  light,  and  she  faced  the 
thought  in  shame  and  terror.  "How  unjust  I  have 
been  to  him !  how  cruel !  thus  to  entice  him  on  in 
hopeless  love ! " 

She  lifted  up  her  eyes,  and  saw  in  the  mirror 
opposite  the  reflection  of  her  own  exquisite  beauty. 

"  I  could  have  known  what  I  was  doing  !  I  knew 
all  the  while  !  And  yet  it  is  so  delicious  to  feel  that 
any  one  loves  me  !  Is  it  selfishness  1  It  is  selfishness, 
to  pamper  my  vanity  on  an  affection  which  I  do  not, 
will  not  return.  I  will  not  be  thus  in  debt  to  him, 
even  for  his  love.  I  do  not  love  him — I  do  not ;  and 
even  if  I  did,  to  give  myself  up  to  a  man  of  whom  I 
know  so  little,  who  is  not  even  a  Christian,  much  less 
a  Churchman  !  Ay  !  and  to  give  up  my  will  to  any 
man  !  to  become  the  subject,  the  slave,  of  another 
human  being !  I,  who  have  worshipped  the  l>elief  in 
woman's  independence,  the  hope  of  woman's  enfran- 
chisement, who  have  felt  how  glorious  it  is  fc>  live  like 
the  angels,  single,  and  self-sustained  !  What  if  I  cut 
the  Gordian  knot,  and  here  make,  once  for  all,  a  vow 
of  i>crpetual  celibacy?" 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  183 

She  flung  herself  on  her  knees — she  could  not 
collect  her  thoughts. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not  prepared  for  this.  It 
is  too  solemn  to  be  undertaken  in  this  miserable  whirl- 
wind of  passion.  I  will  fast,  and  meditate,  and  go  up 
formally  to  the  little  chapel,  and  there  devote  myself 
to  God ;  and,  in  the  meantime,  to  write  at  once  to  the 
superior  of  the  B6guines;  to  go  to  my  mother,  and 

tell  her  once  for  all What  ?  Must  I  lose  him  1 — 

must  I  give  him  up  ?  Not  his  love — I  cannot  give  up 
that — would  that  I  could !  but  no !  he  will  love  me 
for  ever.  I  know  it  as  Avell  as  if  an  angel  told  me. 
But  to  give  up  him !  Never  to  see  him !  never  to 
hear  his  voice  !  never  to  walk  with  him  among  the 
beech  woods  any  more  !  Oh,  Argemone  !  Argemone  ! 
miserable  girl!  and  is  it  come  to  this1?"  And  she 
threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Yes,  Argemone,  it  is  come  to  this;  and  the  best 
thing  you  can  do,  is  just  what  you  are  doing — to  lie 
there  and  cry  yourself  to  sleep,  while  the  angels  are 
laughing  kindly  (if  a  solemn  public,  who  settles  every- 
thing for  them,  will  permit  them  to  laugh)  at  the 
rickety  old  windmill  of  sham-Popery  which  you  have 
taken  for  a  real  giant. 

At  that  same  day  and  hour,  as  it  chanced,  Lance- 
lot, little  dreaming  what  the  said  windmill  was  grind- 
ing for  him,  was  scribbling  a  hasty  and  angry  answer 
to  a  letter  of  Luke's,  which,  perhaps,  came  that  very 
morning  in  order  to  put  him  into  a  proper  temper  for 
the  demolishing  of  windmills.  It  ran  thus, — 


184  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

"  Ay,  my  good  Cousin, — So  I  expected — 

"  Suave  rnari  magno  turban  tibus  tequora  vemU 
E  terra  magnum  alterius  si»ectare  laborem  .  .  . 

Pleasant  and  easy  for  you  Protestants  (for  I  will  call 

you  what  you  are,  in  spite  of  your  own  denials,  a 

truly  consistent  and  logical  Protestant — and  therefore 

a  Materialist) — easy  for  you,  I  say,  to  sit  on  the  shore, 

in  cold,  cruel  self:satisfaction,  and  tell  the  poor  wretch 

buffeting  with  the  waves  what  he  ought  to  do  while 

he  is  choking  and  drowning.  .  .  .   Thank  Heaven, 

the  storm  has  stranded  me  upon  the  everlasting  Rock 

of  Peter ; — but  it  has  been  a  sore  trouble  to  reach  it. 

Protestants,  who  look  at  creeds  as  things  to  be  change.  1 

like  coats,  whenever  they  seem  not  to  fit  them,  little 

know  what  we  Catholic-hearted  ones  suffer.  ...  If 

they  did,  they  would  be  more  merciful  and  more  chary 

in  the  requirements  of  us,  just  as  we  are  in  the  very 

throe  of  a  new-born  existence.     The  excellent  man,  to 

whose  care  I  have  committed  myself,  has  a  wise  and 

a  tender  heart.  ...  he  saw  no  harm  in  my  concealing 

from  my  father  the  spiritual  reason  of  my  giving  up 

my  curacy  (for  I  have  given  it  up),  and  only  giving 

the  outward,  but  equally  true  reason,  that  I  found  it 

on  the  whole  an  ineligible  and  distressing  post  .  .  . 

I  know  you  will  apply  to  such  an  act  that  disgusting 

monosyllable  of  which  Protestants  are  so  fond.     He 

felt  with  me  and  for  me — for  my  horror  of  giving 

pain  to  my  father,  and  for  my  wearied  and  excit.  «1 

state  of  mind ;  and  strangely  enough — to  show  how 

differently,  according  to  the  difference  of  the  organs, 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  185 

the  same  object  may  appear  to  two  people — he  quoted 
in  my  favour  that  very  verse  which  you  wrest  against 
me.  He  wished  me  to  show  my  father  that  I  had 
only  changed  my  heaven,  and  not  my  character,  by 
becoming  an  Ultramontane-Catholic  .  .  .  that,  as  far 
as  his  esteem  and  affection  were  founded  on  anything 
in  me,  the  ground  of  it  did  not  vanish  with  my  con- 
version. If  I  had  told  him  at  once  of  my  altered 
opinions,  he  would  have  henceforth  viewed  every 
word  and  action  with  a  prejudiced  eye.  .  .  .  Protest- 
ants are  so  bigoted  .  .  .  but  if,  after  seeing  me  for  a 
month  or  two  the  same  Luke  that  he  had  ever  known 
me,  he  were  gradually  informed  that  I  had  all  the 
while  held  that  creed  which  he  had  considered  incom- 
patible with  such  a  life  as  I  hope  mine  would  be — you 
must  see  the  effect  which  it  ought  to  have.  ...  I 
don't  doubt  that  you  will  complain  of  all  this.  .  .  . 
All  I  can  say  is,  that  I  cannot  sympathise  with  that 
superstitious  reverence  for  mere  verbal  truth,  which 
is  so  common  among  Protestants.  ...  It  seems  to 
me  they  throw  away  the  spirit  of  truth,  in  their 
idolatry  of  its  letter.  For  instance, — what  is  the  use 
of  informing  a  man  of  a  true  fact  but  to  induce  a  true 
opinion  in  him1?  But  if,  by  clinging  to  the  exact 
letter  of  the  fact,  you  create  a  false  opinion  in  his 
mind,  as  I  should  do  in  my  father's  case,  if  by  telling 
him  at  once  of  my  change,  I  gave  him  an  unjust  horror 
of  Catholicism, — you  do  not  tell  him  the  truth.  .  .  . 
You  may  speak  what  is  true  to  you, — but  it  becomes 
an  error  when  received  into  his  mind.  .  .  If  his 


186  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

mind  is  a  refracting  and  polarising  medium — if  the 
crystalline  lens  of  his  soul's  eye  has  been  changed  into 
tourmaline  or  Labrador  spar— the  only  way  to  give  him 
a  true  image  of  the  fact,  is  to  present  it  to  him  already 
properly  altered  in  form,  and  adapted  to  suit  the 
obliquity  of  his  vision ;  in  order  that  the  very  refrac- 
tive power  of  his  faculties  may,  instead  of  distorting  it, 
correct  it,  and  make  it  straight  for  him ;  and  so  a  verbal 
wrong  in  fact  may  possess  him  with  a  right  opinion.  .  .  . 

"  You  see  the  whole  question  turns  on  your  Pro- 
testant deification  of  the  intellect  ...  If  you  really 
believed,  as  you  all  say  you  do,  that  the  nature  of 
man,  and  therefore  his  intellect  among  the  rest,  was 
utterly  corrupt,  you  would  not  be  so  supcrstitiously 
careful  to  tell  the  truth  ...  as  you  call  it ;  because 
you  would  know  that  man's  heart,  if  not  his  head, 
would  needs  turn  the  truth  into  a  lie  by  its  own  cor- 
ruption. .  .  .  The  proper  use  of  reasoning  is  to  produce 
opinion, — and  if  the  subject  in  which  you  wish  to  pro- 
duce the  opinion  is  diseased,  you  must  adapt  the  medi- 
cine accordingly." 

To  all  which  Lancelot,  with  several  strong  curses, 
scrawled  the  following  answer : — 

"  And  this  is  my  Cousin  Luke  ! — 'Well,  I  shall  be- 
lieve henceforward  that  there  is,  after  all,  a  thousand 
times  greater  moral  gulf  fixed  between  Poj>ery  and 
Tractarianism,  than  between  Tractarianism  and  the 
extremest  Protestantism.  My  dear  fellow, — I  won't 
bother  you,  by  cutting  up  your  charming  ambiguous 
middle  terms,  which  make  reason  and  reasoning 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  187 

identical,  or  your  theory  that  the  office  of  reasoning 
is  to  induce  opinions— (the  devil  take  opinions,  right 
or  wrong — I  want  facts,  faith  in  real  facts !) — or  about 
deifying  the  intellect— as  if  all  sound  intellect  was  not 
in  itself  divine  light — a  revelation  to  man  of  absolute 
laws  independent  of  him,  as  the  very  heathens  hold. 
But  this  I  will  do — thank  you  most  sincerely  for  the 
compliment  you  pay  us  Cismontane  heretics.  We  do 
retain  some  dim  belief  in  a  God — even  I  am  beginning 
to  believe  in  believing  in  Him.  And  therefore,  as  I 
begin  to  suppose,  it  is,  that  we  reverence  facts,  as  the 
work  of  God,  His  acted  words  and  will,  which  we  dare 
not  falsify ;  which  we  believe  will  tell  their  own  story 
better  than  we  can  tell  it  for  them.  If  our  eyes  are 
dimmed,  we  think  it  safer  to  clear  them,  which  do 
belong  to  us,  than  to  bedevil,  by  the  light  of  those 
very  already  dimmed  eyes,  the  objects  round,  which  do 
not  belong  to  us.  Whether  we  are  consistent  or  not 
about  the  corruptness  of  man,  we  are  about  the  incor- 
ruptness  of  God;  and  therefore  about  that  of  the 
facts  by  which  God  teaches  men :  and  believe,  and 
will  continue  to  believe,  that  the  blackest  of  all  sins, 
the  deepest  of  all  Atheisms,  that  which,  above  all 
things,  proves  no  faith  in  God's  government  of  the 
universe,  no  sense  of  His  presence,  no  understanding 
of  His  character,  is — a  lie. 

"One  word  more — unless  you  tell  your  father 
Avithin  twenty -four  hours  after  receiving  this  letter,  I 
will.  And  I,  being  a  Protestant  (if  cursing  Popery 
means  Protestantism),  mean  what  I  say." 


188  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

As  Lancelot  walked  up  to  the  Priory  that  morn- 
ing, the  Reverend  Pamirgus  QLBlareaway  dashed  out 
of  a  cottage  by  the  roadside,  and  seized  him  uncere- 
moniously by  the  shoulders.  He  was  a  specimen  of 
humanity  which  Lancelot  could  not  help  at  once 
liking  and  despising ;  a  quaint  mixture  of  conceit  and 
earnestness,  uniting  the  shrewdness  of  a  stock-jobber 
with  the  frolic  of  a  schoolboy  broke  loose.  He  was 
rector  of  a  place  in  the  west  of  Ireland,  containing 
-»m^  ten  Frutr-taiiN  ami  -unif  tlnm-aml 
Being,  unfortunately  for  himself,  a  red-hot 
man,  he  had  thought  fit  to  quarrel  with  the  priest,  in 
consequence  of  which  he  found  himself  deprived  both 
of  tithes  and  congregation ;  and  after  receiving  three 
or  four  Rockite  letters,  and  a  charge  of  slugs  through1 
his  hat  (of  which  he  always  talked  as  if  being  shot  at 
was  the  most  pleasant  and  amusing  feature  of  Irish 
life),  he  repaired  to  England,  and  there,  after  trying 
to  set  up  as  popular  preacher  in  London,  declaiming  at 
Exeter  Hall,  and  writing  for  all  the  third-rate  maga- 
zines, found  himself  incumbent  of  Lower  Whitford. 
He  worked  there,  as  he  said  himself,  "  like  a  horse ;" 
spent  his  mornings  in  the  schools,  his  afternoons  in 
the  cottages ;  preached  four  or  five  extempore  sermons 
every  week  to  overflowing  congregations;  took  the 
lead,  by  virtue  of  the  "gift  of  the  gab,"  at  all  "iv- 
ligious"  meetings  for  ten  miles  round;  and  really  did 
a  great  deal  of  good  in  his  way.  He  had  an  unblush- 
ing candour  about  his  own  worldly  ambition,  with  a 
tremendous  brogue ;  and  prided  himself  on  exaggerat- 
ing deliberately  both  of  these  excellences. 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  189 

"  The  top  of  the  morning  to  ye,  Mr.  Smith.  Ye 
haven't  such  a  thing  as  a  cegar  about  ye  ?  I've  been 
preaching  to  school-children  till  me  throat's  as  dry  as 
the  slave  of  a  lime-burner's  coat." 

"  I  am  very  sorry ;  but,  really,  I  have  left  my  case 
at  home." 

"  Oh !  ah !  faix  and  I  forgot.  Ye  mustn't  be 
smokin'  the  nasty  things  going  up  to  the  castle.  Och, 
Mr.  Smith,  but  you're  the  lucky  man  !" 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  compliment," 
said  Lancelot,  gruffly ;  "  but  really  I  don't  see  how  I 
deserve  it." 

"  Desarve  it !  Sure  luck's  all,  and  that's  your  luck, 
and  not  your  deserts  at  all.  To  have  the  handsomest 
girl  in  the  county  dying  for  love  of  ye  " — (Panurgus 
had  a  happy  knack  of  blurting  out  truths — when  they 
were  pleasant  ones).  "  And  she  just  the  beautifulest 
creature  that  ever  spilte  shoe-leather,  barring  Lady 
Philandria  Mountflunkey,  of  Castle  Mountflunkey, 
Quane's  County,  that  shall  be  nameless." 

"Upon  my  word,  O'Blareaway,  you  seem  to  be 
better  acquainted  with  my  matters  than  I  am.  Don't 
you  think,  on  the  whole,  it  might  be  better  to  mind 
your  own  business  1" 

"  Me  own  business  !  Poker  o'  Moses  !  and  ain't  it 
me  own  business1?  Haven't  ye  spilte  my  tenderest 
hopes  ?  And  good  luck  to  ye  in  that  same,  for  ye're 
as  pretty  a  rider  as  ever  kicked  coping-stones  out  of 
a  Avail ;  and  poor  Paddy  loves  a  sportsman  by  nature. 
Och !  but  ye've  got  a  hand  of  trumps  this  time. 


190  "MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

Didn't  I  mate  the  vicar  the  other  day,  and  spake  my 
mind  to  him  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Lancelot,  with  a 
strong  expletive. 

"  Faix,  I  told  him  he  might  as  well  Faugh  n  Imllayh 
— make  a  rid  road,  and  get  out  of  that,  with  his  Ixnv- 
ings  and  his  crossings,  and  his  Popery  made  asy  for 
small  minds,  for  there  was  a  gun  a-field  that  would 
wipe  his  eye, — mailing  yourself,  ye  Prathestant" 

"  All  I  can  say  is,  that  you  had  really  better  mind 
your  own  business,  and  I'll  mind  my  own." 

"  Och,"  said  the  good-natured  Irishman,  "  and  it's 
you  must  mind  my  business,  and  I'll  mind  yours ;  and 
that's  all  fair  and  aqual.  Yc've  cut  me  out  intirely 
at  the  Priory,  ye  Tory,  and  so  ye're  bound  to  give 
me  a  lift  somehow.  Couldn't  ye  look  me  out  a  fine 
fat  widow,  with  an  illigant  little  fortune  1  For  what's 
England  made  for  except  to  find  poor  Paddy  a  wife 
and  money  1  Ah,  ye  may  laugh,  but  I'd  buy  mo  a 
chapel  at  the  West-end  :  me  talents  are  thrown  away 
here  intirely,  wasting  me  swateness  on  the  desert  air, 
as  Tom  Moore  says  (Panurgus  used  to  attribute  all 
quotations  whatsoever  to  Irish  geniuses) ;  and  I  flatter 
meself  I'm  the  boy  to  shute  the  Gospel  to  the  aristo- 
cracy." 

Lancelot  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  escaped 
over  the  next  gate :  but  the  Irishman's  coarse  hints 
stuck  by  him  as  they  were  intended  to  do.  "Dying 
for  the  love  of  me!"  He  knew  it  was  an  impudent 
exaggeration,  but,  somehow,  it  gave  him  confidence  ; 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  191 

"there  is  no  smoke,"  he  thought  "without  fire." 
And  his  heart  beat  high  with  new  hopes,  for  which 
he  laughed  at  himself  all  the  while.  It  was  just  the 
cordial  which  he  needed.  That  conversation  deter- 
mined the  history  of  his  life. 

He  met  Argemone  that  morning  in  the  library,  as 
usual ;  but  he  soon  found  that  she  was  not  thinking 
of  Homer.  She  was  moody  and  abstracted ;  and  he 
could  not  help  at  last  saying, — 

"  I  am  afraid  I  and  my  classics  are  de  trop  this 
morning,  Miss  Lavington." 

"Oh,  no,  no.  Never  that."  She  turned  away 
her  head.  He  fancied  that  it  was  to  hide  a  tear. 

Suddenly  she  rose,  and  turned  to  him  with  a  clear, 
calm,  gentle  gaze. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Mr.  Smith.  We^  must  part  to-day, 
and  for  ever.  This  intimacy  has  gone  on — too  long, 
I  am  afraid,  for  your  happiness.  And  now,  like  all 
pleasant  things  in  this  miserable  world,  it  must  cease. 
I  cannot  tell  you  why;  but  you  will  trust  me.  I 
thank  you  for  it — I  thank  God  for  it.  I  have  learnt 
things  from  it  which  I  shall  never  forget.  I  have 
learnt,  at  least  from  it,  to  esteem  and  honour  you. 
You  have  vast  powers.  Nothing,  nothing,  I  believe, 
is  too  high  for  you  to  attempt  and  succeed.  But  we 
must  part ;  and  now,  God  be  with  you.  Oh,  that 
you  would  but  believe  that  these  glorious  talents  are 
His  loan  !  That  you  would  but  be  a  true  and  loyal 
knight  to  Him  who  said — 'Learn  of  me,  for  I  am 
meek  and  lowly  of  heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto 


192  "MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

your  souls!' — Ay,"  she  went  on,  more  and  more  pas- 
sionately, for  she  felt  that  not  she,  but  One  mightier 
than  herself  was  speaking  through  her,  "then  you 
might  be  great  indeed.  Then  I  might  watch  your 
name  from  afar,  rising  higher  and  higher  daily  in  the 
ranks  of  Clod's  own  heroes.  I  see  it — and  you  have 
taught  me  to  see  it — that  you  are  meant  for  a  faith 
nobler  and  deeper  than  all  doctrines  and  systems  can 
give.  You  must  become  the  philosopher,  who  can 
discover  new  truths — the  artist  who  can  embody  them 

in  new  forms,  while  poor  I And  that  is  another 

reason  why  we  should  part. — Hush  !  hear  me  out  I 
must  not  be  a  clog,  to  drag  you  down  in  your  course. 
Take  this,  and  farewell ;  and  remember  that  you  once 
had  a  friend  called  Argemone." 

She  put  into  his  hands  a  little  Bible.  He  took  it, 
and  laid  it  down  on  the  table. 

For  a  minute  he  stood  silent  and  rooted  to  the 
spot.  Disappointment,  shame,  rage,  hatred,  all  boiled 
up  madly  within  him.  The  bitterest  insults  rose  to  his 
lips — "Flirt,  cold-hearted  pedant,  fanatic !"  but  they 
sank  again  unspoken,  as  he  looked  into  the  celestial 
azure  of  those  eyes,  calm  and  pure  as  a  soft  evening 
sky.  A  mighty  struggle  between  good  and  evil  shook 
his  heart  to  the  roots ;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  his  soul  breathed  out  one  real  prayer,  that  God 
would  help  him  now  or  never  to  play  the  man.  And 
in  a  moment  the  darkness  passed ;  a  new  spirit  called 
out  all  the  latent  strength  within  him;  and  gently 
and  proudly  he  answered  her, — 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  193 

"Yes,  I  will  go.  I  have  had  mad  dreams,  con- 
ceited and  insolent,  and  have  met  with  my  deserts. 
Brute  and  fool  as  I  am,  I  have  aspired  even  to  you ! 
And  I  have  gained,  in  the  sunshine  of  your  condescen- 
sion, strength  and  purity. — Is  not  that  enough  for 
me  ?  And  now  I  will  show  you  that  I  love  you — 
by  obeying  you.  You  tell  me  to  depart — I  go  for 
ever." 

He  turned  away.  Why  did  she  almost  spring  after 
him? 

"  Lancelot !  one  word !  Do  not  misunderstand 
me,  as  I  know  you  will.  You  will  think  me  so  cold, 
heartless,  fickle. — Oh,  you  do  not  know — you  never 
can  know — how  much  I,  too,  have  felt ! " 

He  stopped,  spell -bound.  In  an  instant  his  con- 
versation with  the  Irishman  flashed  up  before  him 
with  new  force  and  meaning.  A  thousand  petty  inci- 
dents, which  he  had  driven  contemptuously  from  his 
mind,  returned  as  triumphant  evidences;  and,  with 
an  impetuous  determination,  he  cried  out, — 

"I  see — I  see  it  all,  Argemone  !  We  love  each 
other !  You  are  mine,  never  to  be  parted ! " 

What  was  her  womanhood,  that  it  could  stand 
against  the  energy  of  his  manly  will !  The  almost 
coarse  simplicity  of  his  words  silenced  her  with  a 
delicious  violence.  She  could  only  bury  her  face  in 
her  hands  and  sob  out, — 

"Oh,  Lancelot,  Lancelot,  whither  are  you  forcing 
me?" 

"  I  am  forcing  you  no- whither.  God,  the  Father 
o  v. 


194  "  MURDER  WILL  OUT," 

of  spirits  is  leading  you  !  You,  who  believe  in  Him, 
how  dare  you  fight  against  Him?" 

"  Lancelot,  I  cannot — I  cannot  listen  to  you — read 
that ! "  And  she  handed  him  the  vicar's  letter.  He 
read  it,  tossed  it  on  the  carpet,  and  crushed  it  with 
his  heel. 

"  Wretched  pedant !  Can  your  intellect  be  deluded 
by  such  barefaced  sophistries?  'God's  will,'  forsooth! 
And  if  your  mother's  opposition  is  not  a  sign  that 
God's  will — if  it  mean  anything  except  your  own  will, 
or  that — that  man's — is  against  this  mad  project,  and 
not  for  it,  what  sign  would  you  have  ?  So  'celibacy  is 
the  highest  state ! '  And  why  ?  Because  ' it  is  the  safest 
and  the  easiest  road  to  heaven?'  A  pretty  reason, 
Vicar !  I  should  have  thought  that  that  was  a  sign 
of  a  lower  state  and  not  a  higher.  Noble  spirits  show 
their  nobleness  by  daring  the  most  difficult  paths. 
And  even  if  marriage  was  but  one  weed-field  of  tempt- 
ations, as  these  miserable  pedants  say,  who  have 
either  never  tried  it,  or  misused  it  to  their  own 
shame,  it  would  be  a  greater  deed  to  conquer  its 
temptations  than  to  flee  from  them  in  cowardly  long- 
ings after  ease  and  safety  !" 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but  kept  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands. 

"Again,  I  say,  Argemone,  will  you  fight  against 
Fate — Providence  —  God  —  call  it  what  you  will? 
Who  made  us  meet  at  the  chapel  ?  Who  made  me, 
by  my  accident,  a  guest  in  your  father's  house  !  Who 
put  it  into  your  heart  to  care  for  my  poor  soul  ?  Who 


AND  LOVE  TOO.  195 

gave  us  this  strange  attraction  towards  each  other,  in 
spite  of  our  unlikeness1?  Wonderful  that  the  very 
chain  of  circumstances  which  you  seem  to  fancy  the 
offspring  of  chance  or  the  devil,  should  have  first 
taught  me  to  believe  that  there  is  a  God  who  guides 
us  !  Argemone  !  speak,  tell  me,  if  you  will,  to  go  for 
ever ;  but  tell  me  first  the  truth — You  love  me  !" 

A  strong  shudder  ran  through  her  frame — the  ice 
of  artificial  years  cracked,  and  the  clear  stream  of  her 
woman's  nature  welled  up  to  the  light,  as  pure  as 
when  she  first  lay  on  her  mother's  bosom  :  she  lifted 
up  her  eyes,  and  with  one  long  look  of  passionate 
tenderness  she  faltered  out, — 

"Hove  you!" 

He  did  not  stir,  but  watched  her  with  clasped 
hands,  like  one  who  in  dreams  finds  himself  in  some 
fairy  palace,  and  fears  that  a  movement  may  break 
the  spell. 

"Now,  go,"  she  said;  "go,  and  let  me  collect  my 
thoughts.  All  this  has  been  too  much  for  me.  Do 
not  look  sad — you  may  come  again  to-morrow." 

She  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand.  He  caught  it, 
covered  it  with  kisses,  and  pressed  it  to  his  heart. 
She  half  drew  it  back,  frightened.  The  sensation 
was  new  to  her.  Again  the  delicious  feeling  of  being 
utterly  in  his  power  came  over  her,  and  she  left  her 
hand  upon  his  heart,  and  blushed  as  she  felt  its  pas- 
sionate throbbings. 

He  turned  to  go  —  not  as  before.  She  followed 
with  greedy  eyes  her  new-found  treasure;  and  as  the 


196  "MUKDEll  WILL  OUT,"  AND  LOVE  TOO. 

door  closed  behind  him,  she  felt  as  if  I^ncelot  was 
the  whole  world,  and  there  was  nothing  beside  him, 
and  wondered  how  a  moment  had  made  him  all  in  all 
to  her ;  and  then  she  sank  upon  her  knees,  and  folded 
her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  and  her  prayers  for  him 
were  like  the  prayers  of  a  little  child. 


CHAPTEE  XL 

THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST. 

Bur  what  had  become  of  the  "  bit  of  writing  "  which 
Harry  Verney,  by  the  instigation  of  his  evil  genius, 
had  put  into  the  squire's  fly -book?  Tregarva  had 
waited  in  terrible  suspense  for  many  weeks,  expecting 
the  explosion  which  he  knew  must  follow  its  discovery. 
He  had  confided  to  Lancelot  the  contents  of  the  paper, 
and  Lancelot  had  tried  many  stratagems  to  get  pos- 
session of  it,  but  all  in  vain.  Tregarva  took  this  as 
calmly  as  he  did  everything  else.  Only  once,  on  the 
morning  of  the  dclaircissement  between  Lancelot  and 
Argemone,  he  talked  to  Lancelot  of  leaving  his  place, 
and  going  out  to  seek  his  fortune;  but  some  spell, 
which  he  did  not  explain,  seemed  to  chain  him  to  the 
Priory.  Lancelot  thought  it  was  the  want  of  money, 
and  offered  to  lend  him  ten  pounds  whenever  he  liked; 
but  Tregarva  shook  his  head. 

"  You  have  treated  me,  sir,  as  no  one  else  has  done 
—like  a  man  and  a  friend;  but  I  am  not  going  to 
make  a  market  of  your  generosity.  I  will  owe  no 
man  anything,  save  to  love  one  another." 


198  THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST. 

"But  how  do  you  intend  to  live?"  asked  Lancelot, 
as  they  stood  together  in  the  cloisters. 

"  There's  enough  of  me,  sir,  to  make  a  good  navi- 
gator if  all  trades  fail" 

"  Nonsense !  you  must  not  throw  yourself  away 
so." 

"Oh,  sir,  there's  good  to  be  done,  believe  me, 
among  those  poor  fellows.  They  wander  up  and 
down  the  land  like  hogs  and  heathens,  and  no  one 
tells  them  that  they  have  a  soul  to  be  saved.  Not 
one  parson  in  a  thousand  gives  a  thought  to  them. 
They  can  manage  old  folks  and  little  children,  sir, 
but,  somehow,  they  never  can  get  hold  of  the  young 
men — just  those  who  want  them  most  There's  a 
talk  about  ragged  schools,  now.  Why  don't  they  try 
ragged  churches,  sir,  and  a  ragged  service  V 

"  What  do  you  mean  V 

"  Why,  sir,  the  parsons  are  ready  enough  to  save 
souls,  but  it  must  be  only  according  to  rule  and  regu- 
lation. Before  the  Gospel  can  be  preached  there  must 
l)e  three  thousand  pounds  got  together  for  a  church, 
and  a  thousand  for  an  endowment,  not  to  mention  the 
thousand  pounds  that  the  clergyman's  education  costs : 
I  don't  think  of  his  own  keep,  sir;  that's  little  enough, 
often ;  and  those  that  work  hardest  get  least  pay,  it 
seems  to  me.  But  after  all  that  expense,  when  they've 
built  the  church,  it's  the  tradesmen,  and  the  gentry, 
and  the  old  folk  that  fill  it,  and  the  working-men 
never  come  near  it  from  one  year's  end  to  another." 

"What's  the  cause,  do  you  think?"  asked  Lancelot, 


THUNDEKSTOKM  THE  FIRST.  199 

who  had  himself  remarked  the  same  thing  more  than 
once. 

"  Half  of  the  reason,  sir,  I  do  believe,  is  that  same 
Prayer-book.  Not  that  the  Prayer-book  ain't  a  fine 
book  enough,  and  a  true  one ;  but,  don't  you  see,  sir, 
to  understand  the  virtue  of  it,  the  poor  fellows  ought 
to  be  already  just  what  you  want  to  make  them." 

"  You  mean  that  they  ought  to  be  thorough  Chris- 
tians already,  to  appreciate  the  spirituality  of  the 
liturgy." 

"  You've  hit  it,  sir.  And  see  what  comes  of  the 
present  plan ;  how  a  navvy  drops  into  a  church  by 
accident,  and  there  he  has  to  sit  like  a  fish  out  of 
water,  through  that  hour's  service,  staring  or  sleeping, 
before  he  can  hear  a  word  that  he  understands ;  and, 
sir,  when  the  sermon  does  come  at  last,  it's  not  many 
of  them  can  make  much  out  of  those  fine  book-words 
and  long  sentences.  Why  don't  they  have  a  short 
simple  service,  now  and  then,  that  might  catch  the 
ears  of  the  roughs  and  the  blowens,  without  tiring  out 
the  poor  thoughtless  creatures'  patience,  as  they  do 
now?" 

"Because,"  said  Lancelot,  —  "because  —  I  really 
don't  know  why. — But  I  think  there  is  a  simpler  plan 
than  even  a  ragged  service." 

"What,  then,  sir?" 

"  Field-preaching.  If  the  mountain  won't  come  to 
Mahomet,  let  Mahomet  go  to  the  mountain." 

"Right,  sir;  right  you  are.  '  Go  out  into  the  high- 
ways and  hedges,  and  compel  them  to  come  in.'  And 


200  THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST. 

why  are  they  to  speak  to  them  only  one  by  one?  Why 
not  by  the  dozen  and  the  hundred  ?  We  Wesleyans 
know,  sir,  —  for  the  matter  of  that,  every  soldier 
knows, — what  virtue  there  is  in  getting  a  lot  of  men 
together;  how  good  and  evil  spread  like  wildfire 
through  a  crowd ;  and  one  man,  if  you  can  stir  him 
up,  will  become  leaven  to  leaven  the  whole  lump.  Oh 
why,  sir,  are  they  so  afraid  of  field-preaching  ?  Was 
not  their  Master  and  mine  the  prince  of  all  field- 
preachers  ?  Think,  if  the  Apostles  had  waited  to  col- 
lect subscriptions  for  a  church  before  they  spoke  to 
the  poor  heathens,  where  should  we  have  been  now  1" 

Lancelot  could  not  but  agree.  But  at  that  moment 
a  footman  came  up,  and,  with  a  face  half  laughing, 
half  terrified,  said, — 

"  Tregarva,  master  wants  you  in  the  study.  And 
please,  sir,  I  think  you  had  better  go  in  too ;  master 
knows  you're  here,  and  you  might  speak  a  word  for 
good,  for  he's  raging  like  a  mad  bull" 

"I  knew  it  would  come  at  last,"  said  Tregarva, 
quietly,  as  he  followed  Lancelot  into  the  house. 

It  had  come  at  last.  The  squire  was  sitting  in  his 
study,  purple  with  rage,  while  his  daughters  were  try- 
ing vainly  to  pacify  him.  All  the  men-servants, 
grooms,  and  helpers,  were  drawn  up  in  line  along  the 
wall,  and  greeted  Tregarva,  whom  they  all  heartily 
liked,  with  sly  and  sorrowful  looks  of  warning. 

"Here,  you  sir;  you ,  look  at  this  !  Is  this 

the  way  you  repay  me  ?  I,  who  have  kept  you  out  of 
the  workhouse,  treated  you  like  my  own  child  ?  And 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST.  201 

then  to  go  and  write  filthy,  rascally,  Radical  ballads 
on  me  and  mine  !  This  comes  of  your  Methodism, 
you  canting,  sneaking  hypocrite! — you  viper — you 

adder  —  you  snake — you !"  And  the  squire, 

•whose  vocabulary  was  not  large,  at  a  loss  for  another 
synonym,  rounded  off  his  oration  by  a  torrent  of 
oaths;  at  which  Argemone,  taking  Honoria's  hand, 
walked  proudly  out  of  the  room,  with  one  glance  at 
Lancelot  of  mingled  shame  and  love.  "  This  is  your 
handwriting,  you  villain  !  you  know  it "  (and  the 
squire  tossed  the  fatal  paper  across  the  table) ;  "  though 
I  suppose  you'll  lie  about  it.  How  can  you  depend 
on  fellows  who  speak  evil  of  their  betters  1  But  all 
the  servants  are  ready  to  swear  it's  your  handwriting." 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  interposed  the  old  butler, 
"  we  didn't  quite  say  that ;  but  we'll  all  swear  it  isn't 
ours." 

"The  paper  is  mine,"  said  Tregarva. 

"  Confound  your  coolness !  He's  no  more  ashamed 

of  it  than Read  it  out,  Smith,  read  it  out  every 

word;  and  let  them  all  hear  how  this  pauper,  this 
ballad -singing  vagabond,  whom  I  have  bred  up  to 
insult  me,  dares  to  abuse  his  own  master." 

"I  hayjLPQt  -abused. y£»u,_sir,"  answered_Tregarva. 
"I  will  be  heard,  sir  !"  he  went  on  in  a  voice  which 
made  the  old  man  start  from  his  seat  and  clench  his 
fist ;  but  he  sat  down  again.  "  Not  a  word  in  it  is 
meant  for  you.  You  have  been  a  kind  and  a  good 
master  to  me.  Ask  where  you  will  if  I  was  ever 
heard  to  say  a  word  against  you.  I  would  have  cut 


202  THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST. 

off  my  right  hand  sooner  than  write  about  you  or 
yours.  But  what  I  had  to  say  about  others  lies  there, 
and  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it." 

"  Not  against  me  1  Read  it  out,  Smith,  and  see  if 
every  word  of  it  don't  hit  at  me,  and  at  my  daughters, 
too,  by ,  worst  of  all !  Read  it  out,  I  say  ! " 

Lancelot  hesitated;  but  the  squire,  who  was  utterly 
beside  himself,  began  to  swear  at  him  also,  as  masters 
of  hounds  are  privileged  to  do ;  and  Lancelot,  to  whom 
the  whole  scene  was  becoming  every  moment  more 
and  more  intensely  ludicrous,  thought  it  best  to  take 
up  the  paper  and  begin  : — 

"A  ROUGH  RHYME  ON  A  ROUGH  MATTER. 

"  The  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  clover  and  corn  lay  sleeping 
Under  the  moonlight  still. 

"  Leaping  late  and  early, 

Till  under  their  bite  and  their  tread 
The  swedes,  and  the  wheat,  ami  the  barley, 
'  Lay  cankered,  and  trampled,  and  dead. 

"  A  poacher's  widow  sat  sighing 

On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  bank, 
Where  under  the  gloomy  fir-woods 
One  spot  in  the  ley  throve  rank. 

'•  She  watched  a  long  tuft  of  clover, 

Where  rabbit  or  hare  never  ran  ; 
For  its  black  sour  haulm  covered  over 
The  blood  of  a  murdered  man. 

"  She  thought  of  the  dark  plantation. 

And  the  hares  and  her  1  HI  si  wind's  blood, 
And  the  voice  of  her  indignation 
Rose  up  to  the  throne  of  (5<id. 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST.  203 

"  '  I  am  long  past  wailing  and  whining — 

I  have  wept  too  much  in  my  life  : 
I've  had  twenty  years  of  pining 
As  an  English  labourer's  wife. 

"  '  A  labourer  in  Christian  England, 

"Where  they  cant  of  a  Saviour's  name, 
And  yet  waste  men's  lives  like  the  vermin's 
For  a  few  more  brace  of  game. 

"  '  There's  blood  on  your  new  foreign  shrubs,  squire  ; 

There's  blood  on  your  pointer's  feet ; 
There's  blood  on  the  game  you  sell,  squire, 
And  there's  blood  on  the  game  you  eat ! '" 

"  You  villain !"  interposed  the  squire,  "when  did 
I  ever  sell  a  head  of  game  ?" 

' '  '  You  have  sold  the  labouring  man,  squire, 

Body  and  soul  to  shame, 
To  pay  for  your  seat  in  the  House,  squire, 
And  to  pay  for  the  feed  of  your  game. 

"  'You  made  him  a  poacher  yourself,  squire, 

When  you'd  give  neither  work  nor  meat ; 
And  your  barley -fed  hares  robbed  the  garden 
At  our  starving  children's  feet ; 

' '  '  When  packed  in  one  reeking  chamber, 

Man,  maid,  mother,  and  little  ones  lay  ; 
While  the  rain  pattered  in  on  the  rotting  bride-bed, 
And  the  walls  let  in  the  day  ; 

"  'When  we  lay  in  the  burning  fever 

On  the  mud  of  the  cold  clay  floor, 
Till  you  parted  us  all  for  three  months,  squire, 
At  the  cursed  workhouse  door. 

"  '  We  quarrelled  like  brutes,  and  who  wonders  ? 

What  self-respect  could  we  keep, 
Worse  housed  than  your  hacks  and  your  pointers, 
Worse  fed  than  your  hogs  and  your  sheep  ?'  " 


204  THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST. 

"  And  yet  he  has  the  impudence  to  say  he  don't 
mean  me  ! "  grumbled  the  old  man.  Tregarva  winced 
a  good  deal — as  if  he  knew  what  was  coming  next ; 
and  then  looked  up  relieved  when  he  found  Lancelot 
had  omitted  a  stanza — which  I  shall  not  omit 

1 ' '  Our  daughters  with  base-born  babies 

Have  wandered  away  in  their  shame  ; 
If  your  misses  had  slept,  squire,  where  they  did, 
Your  misses  might  do  the  same. 

"  '  Can  your  lady  patch  hearts  that  are  breaking 

With  handfuls  of  coals  and  rice, 
Or  by  dealing  out  flannel  and  sheeting 
A  little  below  cost  price  ? 

"  '  You  may  tire  of  the  gaol  and  the  workhouse, 

And  take  to  allotments  and  schools, 
But  you've  run  up  a  debt  that  will  never 
Be  repaid  us  by  penny-club  rules. 

"  '  In  the  season  of  shame  and  sadness, 

In  the  dark  and  dreary  day 
When  scrofula,  gout,  and  madness, 
Are  eating  your  race  away  ; 

"  '  When  to  kennels  and  liveried  varlets 

You  have  cast  your  daughters'  bread  ; 
And  worn  out  with  liquor  and  harlots, 
Your  heir  at  your  feet  lies  dead  ; 

"  '  When  your  youngest,  the  mealy-mouthed  rector, 

Lets  your  soul  rot  asleep  to  the  grave, 
You  will  find  in  your  God  the  protector 
Of  the  freeman  you  fancied  your  slave. ' 

"  She  looked  at  the  tuft  of  clover, 

And  wept  till  her  heart  grew  light ; 
Ami  at  last,  when  her  passion  was  over, 
Went  wnndi-riii^  into  tin-  night. 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST.  205 

"  But  the  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  uplands  still, 
Where  the  clover  and  corn  lay  sleeping 
On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  hill." 

"Surely,  sir,"  said  Lancelot,  "you  cannot  suppose 
that  this  latter  part  applies  to  you  or  your  family?" 

"  If  it  don't,  it  applies  to  half  the  gentlemen  in  the 
vale,  and  that's  just  as  bad.  What  right  has  the 
fellow  to  speak  evil  of  dignities  ?"  continued  he,  quot- 
ing the  only  text  in  the  Bible  which  he  was  inclined 
to  make  a  "rule  absolute."  "What  does  such  an 
insolent  dog  deserve?  What  don't  he  deserve,  I 
say?" 

"I  think,"  quoth  Lancelot,  ambiguously,  "that  a 
man  who  can  write  such  ballads  is  not  fit  to  be  your 
gamekeeper,  and  I  think  he  feels  so  himself;"  and 
Lancelot  stole  an  encouraging  look  at  Tregarva. 

"And  I  say,  sir,"  the  keeper  answered,  with  an 
effort,  "  that  I  leave  Mr.  Lavington's  service  here  on 
the  spot,  once  and  for  all." 

"  And  that  you  may  do,  my  fine  fellow ! "  roared 
the  squire.  "Pay  the  rascal  his  wages,  steward,  and 
then  duck  him  soundly  in  the  weir -pool.  He  had 
better  have  stayed  there  when  he  fell  in  last." 

"  So  I  had,  indeed,  I  think.  But  I'll  take  none  of 
your  money.  The  day  Harry  Verney  was  buried  I 
vowed  that  I'd  touch  no  more  of  the  wages  of  blood. 
I'm  going,  sir ;  I  never  harmed  you,  or  meant  a  hard 
word  of  all  this  for  you,  or  dreamt  that  you  or  any 
living  soul  would  ever  see  it.  But  what  I've  seen 


206  THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST. 

myself,  in  spite  of  myself,  I've  set  down  here,  and  am 
not  ashamed  of  it  And  woe,"  he  went  on  with  an 
almost  prophetic  solemnity  in  his  tone  and  gesture — 
"  woe  to  those  who  do  these  things  !  and  woe  to  those 
also  who,  though  they  dare  not  do  them  themselves, 
yet  excuse  and  defend  them  who  dare,  just  because 
the  world  calls  them  gentlemen,  and  not  tyrants  and 
oppressors. " 

Ho  turned  to  go.  The  squire,  bursting  with  passion, 
sprang  up  with  a  terrible  oath,  turned  deadly  pale, 
staggered,  and  dropped  senseless  on  the  floor. 

They  all  rushed  to  lift  him  up.  Tregarva  was  the 
first  to  take  him  in  his  arms  and  place  him  tenderly 
in  his  chair,  where  ho  lay  back  with  glassy  eyes, 
snoring  heavily  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy. 

"Go;  for  God's  sake,  go,"  whispered  Lancelot  to 
the  keeper,  "  and  wait  for  me  at  Lower  Whitford.  I 
must  see  you  before  you  stir." 

The  keeper  slipped  away  sadly.  The  ladies  rushed 
in — a  groom  galloped  off  for  the  doctor — met  him 
luckily  in  the  village,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  squire 
was  bled  and  put  to  bed,  and  showed  hopeful  signs 
of  returning  consciousness.  And  as  Argemono  and 
Lancelot  leant  together  over  his  pillow,  her  hair 
touched  her  lover's,  and  her  fragrant  breath  was  warm 
upon  his  cheek ;  and  her  bright  eyes  met  his  and 
drank  light  from  them,  like  glittering  planets  gazing 
at  their  sun. 

The  obnoxious  ballad  produced  the  most  opposite 
eflects  on  Argomonc  and  on  Honoria.  Argemone, 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST.  207 

whose  reverence  for  the  formalities  and  the  respect- 
abilities of  society,  never  very  great,  had,  of  late, 
utterly  vanished  before  Lancelot's  bad  counsel,  could 
think  of  it  only  as  a  work  of  art,  and  conceived  the 
most  romantic  longing  to  raise  Tregarva  into  some 
jstation  where  his  talents  might  have  free  play.  To 
Honoria,  on  the  other  hand,  it  appeared  only  as  a 
very  fierce,  coarse,  and  impertinent  satire,  which  had 
nearly  killed  her  father.  True,  there  was  not  a 
thought  in  it  which  had  not  at  some  time  or  other 
crossed  her  own  mind ;  but  that  made  her  dislike  all 
the  more  to  see  those  thoughts  put  into  plain  English. 
That  very  intense  tenderness  and  excitability  which 
made  her  toil  herself  among  the  poor,  and  had  called 
out  both  her  admiration  of  Tregarva  and  her  extrava- 
gant passion  at  his  danger,  made  her  also  shrink  with 
disgust  from  anything  which  thrust  on  her  a  painful 
reality,  which  she  could  not  remedy.  She  was  a 
staunch  believer,  too,  in  that  peculiar  creed  which 
allows  every  one  to  feel  for  the  poor,  except  them- 
selves, and  considers  that  to  plead  the  cause  of 
working-men  is,  in  a  gentleman,  the  perfection  of 
virtue,  but  in  a  working-man  himself,  sheer  high 
treason.  And  so  beside  her  father's  sick-bed  she 
thought  of  the  keeper  only  as  a  scorpion  whom  she 
had  helped  to  warm  into  life ;  and  sighing  assent  to 
her  mother,  when  she  said,  "That  wretch,  and  he 
seemed  so  pious  and  so  obliging !  who  would  have 
dreamt  that  he  was  such  a  horrid  Kadical?"  she  let 
him  vanish  from  her  mind  and  out  of  Whitford  Priors, 


208  THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST. 

little  knowing  the  sore  weight  of  manly  love  he  bore 
with  him. 

As  soon  as  Lancelot  could  leave  the  Priory,  he 
hastened  home  to  find  Tregarva.  The  keeper  had 
packed  up  all  his  small  possessions  and  brought  them 
down  to  Lower  Whitford,  through  which  the  London 
coach  passed  JTajya-s  dptenflinM  fa  go  tn  London 
and  seek  his  fortune.  He  talked  of  turning  coal- 
h"eliver,^5TetHodlst~pTeacher,  anything  that  came  to 
hand,  provided  that  he  could  but  keep  independence 
and  a  clear  conscience.  And  all  the  while  the  man 
seemed  to  be  struggling  with  some  great  puq)ose, — to 
feel  that  he  had  a  work  to  do,  though  what  it  was, 
and  how  it  was  to  be  done,  he  did  not  see. 

"  I  am  a  tall  man,"  he  said,  "  like  Saul  the  son  of 
Kish  ;  and  I  am  going  forth,  like  him,  sir,  to  find  my 
father's  asses.  I  doubt  I  shan't  have  to  look  far  for 
some  of  them." 

"  And  perhaps,"  said  Lancelot,  laughing,  "  to  find 
a  kingdom." 

"May  be  so,  sir.  I  have  found  one  already,  by 
God's  grace,  and  I'm  much  mistaken  if  I  don't  begin 
to  see  my  way  towards  another." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"The  kingdom  of  God  on  earth,  sir,  as  well  as  in 
heaven.  Come  it  must,  sir,  and  come  it  will  some 
day." 

Lancelot  shook  his  head. 

Tregarva  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  said,  - 

"Are  we  not  taught  to  pray  for  the  coming  of  His 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST.  209 

kingdom,  sir  1  And  do  you  fancy  that  He  who  gave 
the  lesson  would  have  set  all  mankind  to  pray  for 
what  He  never  meant  should  come  to  pass1?" 

Lancelot  was  silent.  The  words  gained  a  new  and 
blessed  meaning  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  the  time,  at  least,  of  their  fulfil- 
ment is  far  enough  off.  Union-workhouses  and  child- 
murder  don't  look  much  like  it.  Talking  of  that, 
Tregarva,  what  is  to  become  of  your  promise  to  take 
me  to  a  village  wake,  and  show  me  what  the  poor  are 
like?" 

"  I  can  keep  it  this  night,  sir.  There  is  a  revel  at 
Bonesake,  about  five  miles  up  the  river.  Will  you  go 
with  a  discharged  gamekeeper  ?" 

"I  will  go  with  Paul  Tregarva,  whom  I  honour 
and  esteem  as  one  of  God's  own  noblemen ;  who  has 
taught  me  what  a  man  can  be,  and  what  I  am  not," 
— and  Lancelot  grasped  the  keeper's  hand  warmly. 
Tregarva  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  an- 
swered,— 

'"I  said  in  my  haste,  All  men  are  liars ;'  and  God 
has  just  given  me  the  lie  back  in  my  own  teeth. 
Well,  sir,  we  will  go  to-night.  You  are  not  ashamed 
of  putting  on  a  smock-frock1?  For  if  you  go  as  a 
gentleman,  you  will  hear  no  more  of  them  than  a 
hawk  does  of  a  covey  of  partridges." 

So  the  expedition  was  agreed  on,  and  Lancelot  and 
the  keeper  parted  until  the  evening. 

But  why  had  the  vicar  been  rumbling  on  all  that 
morning  through  pouring  rain,  on  the  top  of  the 
P  v 


210  THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST. 

London  coach  ?  And  why  was  he  so  anxious  in  his 
inquiries  as  to  the  certainty  of  catching  the  up-train  t 
Because  he  had  had  considerable  experience  in  that 
wisdom  of  the  serpent,  whose  combination  with  the 
innocence  of  the  dove,  in  somewhat  ultramontane 
proportions,  is  recommended  by  certain  late  leaders 
of  his  school  He  had  made  up  his  mind,  after  his 
conversation  with  the  Irishman,  that  he  must  either 
oust  Lancelot  at  once,  or  submit  to  be  ousted  by  him, 
and  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  Lancelot's  uncle  and 
trustee,  the  London  banker. 

He  knew  that  the  banker  had  some  influence  with 
his  nephew,  whose  whole  property  was  invested  in  the 
bank,  and  who  had  besides  a  deep  respect  for  the 
kindly  and  upright  practical  mind  of  the  veteran 
Mammonite.  And  the  vicar  knew,  too,  that  he  him- 
self had  some  influence  with  the  banker,  whose  son 
Luke  had  been  his  pupil  at  college.  And  when  the 
young  man  lay  sick  of  a  dangerous  illness,  brought 
on  by  debauchery,  into  which  weakness  rather  than 
vice  had  tempted  him,  the  vicar  had  watched  and 
prayed  by  his  bed,  nursed  him  as  tenderly  as  a  mother, 
and  so  won  over  his  better  heart  that  he  became  com- 
pletely reclaimed,  and  took  holy  orders  with  the  most 
earnest  intention  to  play  the  man  therein,  as  repentant 
rakes  will  often  do,  half  from  a  mere  revulsion  to 
asceticism,  half  from  real  gratitude  for  their  deliver- 
ance. This  good  deed  had  placed  the  banker  in  the 
vicar's  debt,  and  he  loved  and  reverenced  him  in  spite 
of  his  dread  of  "Popish  novelties."  And  now  the 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST.  211 

good  priest  was  going  to  open  to  him  just  as  much  of 
his  heart  as  should  seem  fit;  and  by  saying  a  great 
deal  about  Lancelot's  evil  doings,  opinions,  and  com- 
panions, and  nothing  at  all  about  the  heiress  of  Whit- 
ford,  persuade  the  banker  to  use  all  his  influence  in 
drawing  Lancelot  up  to  London,  and  leaving  a  clear 
stage  for  his  plans  on  Argemone.  He  caught  the  up- 
train,  he  arrived  safe  and  sound  in  town,  but  what  he 
did  there  must  be  told  in  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND. 

WEARY  with  many  thoughts,  the  vicar  came  to  the 
door  of  the  bank.     There  were  several  carriages  there, 
and  a  crowd  of  people  swarming  in  and  out,  like  bees 
round  a  hive-door,  entering  with  anxious  faces,  and 
returning  with  cheerful  ones,  to  stop  and  talk  earnestly 
in  groups  round  the  door.     Every  moment  the  m.-is^ 
thickened — there  was  a  run  on  the  bank 
An  old  friend  accosted  him  on  the  steps, — 
"What!  have  you,  too,  money  here,  then?" 
"Neither  here  nor  anywhere  else,  thank  Heaven  !" 
said  the  vicar.     "  But  is  anything  wrong  1" 

"  Have  not  you  heard  ?    The  house  has  sustained  a 
frightful  blow  this  week — railway  speculations,  so  they 
say — and  is  hardly  expected  to  survive  the  day.     So 
we  are  all  getting  our  money  out  as  fast  as  possible." 
"By  way  of  binding  up  the  bruised  reed,  eh?" 
"  Oh  !  every  man  for  himself.     A  man  is  under  no 
obligation  to  his  banker,  that  I  know  of."     And  the 
good  man  bustled  off  with  his  pockets  full  of  gold. 

The  vicar  entered.     All  was  hurry  and  anxiety. 
The  clerks  seemed  trying  to  brazen  out  their  own 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND.  213 

terror,  and  shovelled  the  rapidly  lessening  gold  and 
notes  across  the  counter  with  an  air  of  indignant 
nonchalance.  The  vicar  asked  to  see  the  principal. 

"  If  you  want  your  money,  sir "  answered  the 

official,  with  a  disdainful  look 

"I  want  no  money.  I  must  see  Mr.  Smith  on 
private  business,  and  instantly." 

"He  is  particularly  engaged." 

"  I  know  it,  and,  therefore,  I  must  see  him.  Take 
in  my  card,  and  he  will  not  refuse  me."  A  new  vista 
had  opened  itself  before  him. 

He  was  ushered  into  a  private  room :  and,  as  he 
waited  for  the  banker,  he  breathed  a  prayer.  For 
what?  That  his  own  will  might  be  done — a  very 
common  style  of  petition. 

Mr.  Smith  entered,  hurried  and  troubled.  He 
caught  the  vicar  eagerly  by  the  hand,  as  if  glad  to  see 
a  face  which  did  not  glare  on  him  with  the  cold  selfish 
stamp  of  "business,"  and  then  drew  back  again,  afraid 
to  commit  himself  by  any  sign  of  emotion. 

The  vicar  had  settled  his  plan  of  attack,  and  deter- 
mined boldly  to  show  his  knowledge  of  the  banker's 
distress. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  trouble  you  at  such  an  un- 
fortunate moment,  sir,  and  I  will  be  brief;  but,  as 

your  nephew's  spiritual  pastor "  (He  knew  the 

banker  was  a  stout  Churchman.) 

"  What  of  my  nephew,  sir  ?  No  fresh  misfortunes, 
I  hope?" 

"Not  so  much  misfortune,  sir,  as  misconduct — I 


214  THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND. 

might  say  frailty — but  frailty  which  may  become  ruin- 
ous." 

"  How  ?  how  ?  Some  mesalliance  ?  "  interrupted  Mr. 
Smith,  in  a  peevish,  excited  tone.  "  I  thought  there 
was  some  heiress  on  the  tapis — at  least,  so  I  heard 
from  my  unfortunate  son,  who  has  just  gone  over  to 
Rome.  There's  another  misfortune. — Nothing  but 
misfortunes ;  and  your  teaching,  sir,  by-the-bye,  I  am 
afraid,  has  helped  me  to  that  one." 

"Gone  over  to  Romel"  asked  the  vicar,  slowly. 

"  Yes,  sir,  gone  to  Rome — to  the  pope,  sir !  to  the 
devil,  sir !  I  should  have  thought  you  likely  to  know 
of  it  before  I  did!" 

The  vicar  stared  fixedly  at  him  a  moment,  and 
burst  into  honest  tears.  The  banker  was  moved. 

"  Ton  my  honour,  sir,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did 

not  mean  to  be  rude,  but — but To  be  plain  with 

a  clergyman,  sir,  so  many  things  coming  together  have 
quite  unmanned  me.  Pooh,  pooh,"  and  he  shook 
himself  as  if  to  throw  off  a  weight ;  and,  with  a  face 
once  more  quiet  and  business-like,  asked,  "  And  now, 
my  dear  sir,  what  of  my  nephew?" 

"  As  for  that  young  lady,  sir,  of  whom  you  spoke, 
I  can  assure  you,  once  for  all,  as  her  clergyman,  and 
therefore  more  or  less  her  confidant,  that  your  nephew 
has  not  the  slightest  chance  or  hope  in  that  quarter." 

"  How,  sir  ?  You  will  not  throw  obstacles  in  the 
way]" 

"  Heaven,  sir,  I  think,  has  interposed  far  more  in- 
superable obstacles — in  the  young  lady's  own  heart— 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND.  215 

than  I  could  ever  have  done.  Your  nephew's  cha- 
racter and  opinions,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  are  not  such 
as  are  likely  to  command  the  respect  and  affection  of 
a  pure  and  pious  Church  woman." 

"  Opinions,  sir  ?    What,  is  he  turning  Papist,  too  1" 

"I  am  afraid,  sir,  and  more  than  afraid,  for  he 
makes  no  secret  of  it  himself,  that  his  views  tend 
rather  in  the  opposite  direction ;  to  an  infidelity  so 
subversive  of  the  commonest  principles  of  morality, 
that  I  expect,  weekly,  to  hear  of  some  unblushing  and 
disgraceful  outrage  against  decency,  committed  by 
him  under  its  fancied  sanction.  And  you  know,  as 
well  as  myself,  the  double  danger  of  some  profligate 
outbreak,  which  always  attends  the  miseries  of  a  dis- 
appointed earthly  passion." 

"  True,  very  true.  We  must  get  the  boy  out  of 
the  way,  sir.  I  must  have  him  under  my  eye." 

"Exactly  so,  sir,"  said  the  subtle  vicar,  who  had 
been  driving  at  this  very  point.  "  How  much  better 
for  him  to  be  here,  using  his  great  talents  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  his  family  in  an  honourable  profession, 
than  to  remain  where  he  is,  debauching  body  and 
mind  by  hopeless  dreams,  godless  studies,  and  frivol- 
ous excesses." 

"When  do  you  return,  sir1?" 

"An  hour  hence,  if  I  can  be  of  service  to  you." 

The  banker  paused  a  moment. 

"You  are  a  gentleman"  (with  emphasis  on  the 
word),  "and  as  such  I  can  trust  you." 

"  Say,  rather,  as  a  clergyman." 


216  THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECON1>. 

"Pardoii  mo,  but  I  have  found  your  cloth  give 
little  additional  cause  for  confidence.  I  have  been  as 
much  bitten  by  clergymen — I  have  seen  as  sharp 
practice  among  them,  in  money  matters  as  well  as  in 
religious  squabbles,  as  I  have  in  any  class.  Whether 
it  is  that  their  book  education  leaves  them  very  often 
ignorant  of  the  plain  rules  of  honour  which  bind 
men  of  the  world,  or  whether  their  zeal  makes  them 
think  that  the  end  justifies  the  means,  I  cannot  tell ; 
but— 

"But,"  said  the  vicar,  half  smiling,  half  severely, 
"you  must  not  disparage  the  priesthood  before  a 
priest " 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it ;  and  I  beg  your  pardon : 
but  if  you  knew  the  cause  I  have  to  complain.  The 
slipperiness,  sir,  of  one  stagging  parson,  has  set  rolling 
this  very  avalanche,  which  gathers  size  every  moment, 
and  threatens  to  overwhelm  me  now,  unless  that  idle 
dog  Lancelot  will  condescend  to  bestir  himself,  and 
help  me." 

The  vicar  heard,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Me,  at  least,  you  can  trust,"  he  answered  proudly; 
and  honestly,  too — for  he  was  a  gentleman  by  birth 
and  breeding,  \mselfish  and  chivalrous  to  a  fault — 
and  yet,  when  he  heard  the  banker's  words,  it  was  as 
if  the  inner  voice  had  whispered  to  him,  "  Thou  art 
the  man  !" 

"  When  do  you  go  down  1"  again  asked  Mr.  Smith. 
"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  writing  to  Lancelot 
when  you  were  announced  !  but  the  post  will  not 


THUNDERST.OEM  THE  SECOND.  217 

reach  him  till  to-morrow  at  noon,  and  we  are  all  so 
busy  here,  that  I  have  no  one  whom  I  can  trust  to 
carry  down  an  express." 

The  vicar  saw  what  was  coming.  Was  it  his  good 
angel  which  prompted  him  to  interpose  ? 

"  Why  not  send  a  parcel  by  rail  1 " 

"  I  can  trust  the  rail  as  far  as  D ;  but  I  cannot 

trust  those  coaches.  If  you  could  do  me  so  great  a 
kindness " 

"  I  will.  I  can  start  by  the  one  o'clock  train,  and 
by  ten  o'clock  to-night  I  shall  be  in  Whitford." 

"  Are  you  certain  1" 

"If  God  shall  please,  I  am  certain." 

"  And  you  will  take  charge  of  a  letter  ?  Perhaps, 
too,  you  could  see  him  yourself ;  and  tell  him — you 
see  I  trust  you  with  everything  —  that  my  fortune, 
his  own  fortune,  depends  on  his  being  here  to-morrow 
morning.  He  must  start  to-night,  sir — to-night,  tell 
him,  if  there  were  twenty  Miss  Lavingtons  in  Whit- 
ford — or  he  is  a  ruined  man  ! " 

The  letter  was  written,  and  put  into  the  vicar's 
hands,  with  a  hundred  entreaties  from  the  terrified 
banker.  A  cab  was  called,  and  the  clergyman  rattled 
off  to  the  railway  terminus. 

"  Well,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  God  has  indeed 
blessed  my  errand ;  giving,  as  always,  '  exceeding 
abundantly  more  than  we  are  able  to  ask  or  think ! ' 
For  some  weeks,  at  least,  this  poor  lamb  is  safe  from 
the  destroyer's  clutches.  I  must  improve  to  the 
utmost  those  few  precious  days  in  strengthening  her 


218  THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND. 

in  her  holy  purpose.  But,  after  all,  he  will  return, 
daring  and  cunning  as  ever ;  and  then  will  not  the 
fascination  recommence  1" 

And,  as  he  mused,  a  little  fiend  passed  by,  and 
whispered,  "Unless  he  comes  up  tonight,  he  is  a 
ruined  man." 

It  was  Friday,  and  the  vicar  had  thought  it  a  fit 
preparation  for  so  important  an  errand  to  taste  no 
food  that  day.  Weakness  and  hunger,  joined  to  the 
roar  and  bustle  of  London,  had  made  him  excited, 
nervous,  unable  to  control  his  thoughts,  or  fight  against 
a  stupefying  headache  ;  and  his  self -weakened  will 
punished  him,  by  yielding  him  up  an  easy  prey  to  his 
own  fancies. 

"Ay,"  he  thought,  "if  he  were  ruined,  after  all,  it 
would  be  well  for  God's  cause.  The  Lavingtons,  at 
least,  would  find  no  temptation  in  his  wealth :  and 
Argemone — she  is  too  proud,  too  luxurious,  to  marry 
a  beggar.  She  might  embrace  a  holy  poverty  for  the 
sake  of  her  own  soul ;  but  for  the  gratification  of 
an  earthly  passion,  never !  Base  and  carnal  delights 
would  never  tempt  her  so  far." 

Alas,  poor  jMjdant !  Among  all  that  thy  books 
taught  thoe,  they  did  not  open  to  thee  much  of  the 
depths  of  that  human  heart  which  thy  dogmas  taught 
thee  to  despise  as  diabolic. 

Again  the  little  fiend  whispered,  . 

"  Unless  he  comes  up  to-night,  he  is  a  ruined  man." 

"And  what  if  he  is?"  thought  the  vicar.  "Riches 
are  a  curse ;  and  poverty  a  blessing.  Is  it  not  his 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND.  219 

wealth  which  is  ruining  his  soul  1  Idleness  and  ful- 
ness of  bread  have  made  him  what  he  is — a  luxurious 
and  self-willed  dreamer,  battening  on  his  own  fancies. 
Were  it  not  rather  a  boon  to  him  to  take  from  him 
the  root  of  all  evil1?" 

Most  true,  vicar.  And  yet  the  devil  was  at  that 
moment  transforming  himself  into  an  angel  of  light 
for  thee. 

But  the  vicar  was  yet  honest.  li:  he  had  thought 
that  by  cutting  off  his  right  hand  he  could  have  saved 
Lancelot's  soul  (by  canonical  methods,  of  course ;  for 
who  would  wish  to  save  souls  in  any  other  ?),  he  would 
have  done  it  without  hesitation. 

Again  the  little  fiend  whispered, — 

"Unless  he  comes  up  to-night  he  is  a  ruined 
man." 

A  terrible  sensation  seized  him. — Why  should  he 
give  the  letter  to-night  ? 

"You  promised,"  whispered  the  inner  voice. 

"  No,  I  did  not  promise  exactly,  in  so  many  words ; 
that  is,  I  only  said  I  would  be  at  home  to-night,  if 
God  pleased.  And  what  if  God  should  not  please  1 — 
I  promised  for  his  good.  What  if,  on  second  thoughts, 
it  should  be  better  for  him  not  to  keep  my  promise  ?" 
A  moment  afterwards,  he  tossed  the  temptation  from 
him  indignantly  :  but  back  it  came.  At  every  gaudy 
shop,  at  every  smoke-grimed  manufactory,  at  the  face 
of  every  anxious  victim  of  Mammon,  of  every  sturdy, 
cheerful  artisan,  the  fiend  winked  and  pointed,  crying, 
"  And  what  if  he  be  ruined  1  Look  at  the  thousands 


220  THUNDERSTORM  THK  SECOND. 

who  have,  and  are  miserable — at  the  millions  who 
have  not,  and  are  no  sadder  than  their  own  tyrants." 

Again  and  again  he  thrust  the  thought  from  him, 
but  more  and  more  weakly.  His  whole  frame  shook  ; 
the  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead.  As  he  took 
his  railway  ticket,  his  look  was  so  haggard  and  painful 
that  the  clerk  asked  him  whether  he  were  ill.  The 
train  was  just  starting ;  he  threw  himself  into  a  car- 
riage— he  would  have  locked  himself  in  if  he  could  ; 
and  felt  an  inexpressible  relief  when  he  found  himself 
rushing  past  houses  and  market  -  gardens,  whirled 
onward,  whether  he  would  or  not,  in  the  right  path 
— homeward. 

But  was  it  the  right  path  1  for  again  the  temptation 
flitted  past  him.  He  threw  himself  back,  and  tried 
to  ask  counsel  of  One  above ;  but  there  was  no 
answer,  nor  any  that  regarded.  His  heart  was  silent, 
and  dark  as  midnight  fog.  Why  should  there  have 
been  an  answer?  He  had  not  listened  to  the  voice 
within.  Did  he  wish  for  a  miracle  to  show  him  his 
duty? 

"  Not  that  I  care  for  detection,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  What  is  shame  to  me  ?  Is  it  not  a  glory  to  be  evil- 
spoken  of  in  the  cause  of  God  ?  How  can  the  world 
appreciate  the  motives  of  those  who  are  not  of  the 
world  ? — the  divine  wisdom  of  the  serpent — at  once 
the  saint's  peculiar  weapon,  and  a  part  of  his  peculiar 
cross,  when  men  call  him  a  deceiver,  because  they 
confound,  forsooth,  his  spiritual  subtlety  with  their 
earthly  cunning.  Have  I  not  been  called  'liar,' 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND.  221 

'  hypocrite,'  '  Jesuit,'  often  enough  already,  to  harden 
me  towards  bearing  that  name  once  again?" 

That  led  him  into  sad  thoughts  of  his  last  few  years' 
career, — of  the  friends  and  pupils  whose  secession  to 
Rome  had  been  attributed  to  his  hypocrisy,  his  "  dis- 
guised Romanism ; "  and  then  the  remembrance  of 
poor  Luke  Smith  flashed  across  him  for  the  first  time 
since  he  left  the  bank 

"I  must  see  him,"  he  said  to  himself;  "I  must 
argue  with  him  face  to  face.  Who  knows  but  that  it 
may  be  given  even  to  my  unworthiness  to  snatch  him 
from  this  accursed  slough?" 

And  then  he  remembered  that  his  way  home  lay 
through  the  city  in  which  the  new  convert's  parish 
was — that  the  coach  stopped  there  to  change  horses ; 
and  again  the  temptation  leapt  up  again,  stronger  than 
ever,  under  the  garb  of  an  imperative  call  of  duty. 

He  made  no  determination  for  or  against  it.  He 
was  too  weak  in  body  and  mind  to  resist ;  and  in  a 
half  sleep,  broken  with  an  aching,  terrified  sense  of 
something  wanting,  which  he  could  not  find,  he  was 
swept  down  the  line,  got  on  the  coach,  and  mechani- 
cally, almost  without  knowing  it,  found  himself  set 

down  at  the  city  of  A ,  and  the  coach  rattling 

away  down  the  street. 

He  sprang  from  his  stupor,  and  called  madly  after 
it — ran  a  few  steps — 

"  You  might  as  well  try  to  catch  the  clouds,  sir," 
said  the  ostler.  "Gemmen  should  make  up  their 
minds  afore  they  gets  down." 


222  THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND. 

Alas !  so  thought  the  vicar.  But  it  was  too  late ; 
and,  with  a  heavy  heart,  he  asked  the  way  to  the  late 
curate's  house. 

Thither  he  went  Mr.  Luke  Smith  was  just  at 
dinner,  but  the  vicar  was,  nevertheless,  shown  into 
the  bachelor's  little  dining-room.  But  what  was  his 
disgust  and  disappointment  at  finding  his  late  pupil 
tete-k-tete  over  a  comfortable  fish -dinner,  opposite  a 
burly,  vulgar,  cunning-eyed  man,  with  a  narrow  rim 
of  muslin  turned  down  over  his  stiff  cravat,  of  whose 
profession  there  could  be  no  doubt 

"  My  dearest  sir,"  said  the  new  convert,  springing 
up  with  an  air  of  extreme  empressemeiif,  "what  an 
unexpected  pleasure  !  Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to 
my  excellent  friend,  Padre  Bugiardo  ! " 

The  padre  rose,  bowed  obsequiously,  "was  over- 
whelmed with  delight  at  being  at  last  introduced  to 
one  of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much,"  sat  down  again, 
and  poured  himself  out  a  bumper  of  sherry ;  while 
the  vicar  commenced  making  the  best  of  a  bad  matter 
by  joining  in  the  now  necessary  business  of  eating. 

He  had  not  a  word  to  say  for  himself.  Poor  Luke 
was  particularly  jovial  and  flippant,  and  startlingly 
unlike  his  former  self.  The  padre  went  on  staring 
out  of  the  window,  and  talking  in  a  loud  forced  tone 
about  the  astonishing  miracles  of  the  "  Ecstatica  "  and 
Addolorata;"  and  the  poor  vicar,  finding  the  purpose 
for  which  he  had  sacrificed  his  own  word  of  honour 
utterly  frustrated  by  the  priest's  presence,  sat  silent 
and  crestfallen  the  whole  evening. 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND.  223 

The  priest  had  no  intention  of  stirring.  The  late 
father-confessor  tried  to  outstay  his  new  rival,  but  in 
vain ;  the  padre  deliberately  announced  his  intention 
of  taking  a  bed,  and  the  vicar,  with  a  heavy  heart, 
rose  to  go  to  his  inn. 

As  he  went  out  at  the  door,  he  caught  an  oppor- 
tunity of  saying  one  word  to  the  convert. 

"  My  poor  Luke !  and  are  you  happy  1  Tell  me 
honestly,  in  God's  sight  tell  me  ! " 

"  Happier  than  ever  I  was  in  my  life  !  No  more 
self-torture,  physical  or  mental,  now.  These  good 
priests  thoroughly  understand  poor  human  nature,  I 
can  assure  you." 

The  vicar  sighed,  for  the  speech  was  evidently 
meant  as  a  gentle  rebuke  to  himself.  But  the  young 
man  ran  on,  half  laughing, — 

"  You  know  how  you  and  the  rest  used  to  tell  us 
what  a  sad  thing  it  was  that  we  were  all  cursed  with 
consciences, — what  a  fearful  miserable  burden  moral 
responsibility  was ;  but  that  we  must  submit  to  it  as  an 
inevitable  evil.  Now  that  burden  is  gone,  thank  God ! 
We  of  the  True  Church  have  some  one  to  keep  our 
consciences  for  us.  The  padre  settles  all  about  what 
is  right  or  wrong,  and  we  slip  on  as  easily  as " 

"A  hog  or  a  butterfly  !"  said  the  vicar,  bitterly. 

"Exactly,"  answered  Luke.  "And,  on  your  own 
showing,  are  clean  gainers  of  a  happy  life  here,  not 
to  mention  heaven  hereafter.  God  bless  you !  We 
shall  soon  see  you  one  of  us." 

"  Never,  so  help  me  God  ! "  said  the  vicar ;  all  the 


224  THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND. 

more  fiercely  because  he  was  almost  at  that  moment 
of  the  young  man's  opinion. 

The  vicar  stepped  out  into  the  night  The  rain, 
which  had  given  place  during  the  afternoon  to  a 
bright  sun  and  clear  chilly  evening,  had  returned 
with  double  fury.  The  wind  was  sweeping  and 
howling  down  the  lonely  streets,  and  lashed  the  rain 
into  his  face,  while  grey  clouds  were  rushing  past  the 
moon  like  terrified  ghosts  across  the  awful  void  of 
the  black  heaven.  Above  him  gaunt  poplars  groaned 
and  bent,  like  giants  cowering  from  the  wrath  of 
Heaven,  yet  rooted  by  grim  necessity  to  their  place 
of  torture.  The  roar  and  tumult  without  him  har- 
monised strangely  with  the  discord  within.  He  stag- 
gered and  strode  along  the  plashy  pavement,  mutter- 
ing to  himself  at  intervals, — 

"  Rest  for  the  soul  Y  peace  of  mind  t  I  have  been 
promising  them  all  my  life  to  others — have  I  found 
them  myself  Y  And  here  is  this  poor  boy  saying  that 
he  has  gained  them — in  the  very  barbarian  super- 
stition which  I  have  been  anathematising  to  him ! 
What  is  true,  at  this  rate  Y  What  is  false  t  Is  any- 
thing right  or  wrong,  except  in  as  far  as  men  feel  it 
to  be  right  or  wrong  Y  Else  whence  does  this  poor 
fellow's  peace  come,  or  the  peace  of  many  a  convert 
more  Y  They  have  all,  one  by  one,  told  me  the  same 
story.  And  is  not  a  religion  to  be  known  by  ite 
fruits  Y  Are  they  not  right  in  going  where  they  MB 
get  peace  of  mind  Y" 

Certainly,  vicar.     If  peace  of  mind  be  the  fummum 


THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND.  225 

bonum,  and  religion  is  merely  the  science  of  self-satis- 
faction, they  are  right ;  and  your  wisest  plan  will  be 
to  follow  them  at  once,  or  failing  that,  to  apply  to 
the  next  best  substitute  that  can  be  discovered — 
alcohol  and  opium. 

As  he  went  on,  talking  wildly  to  himself,  he  passed 
the  Union  Workhouse.  Opposite  the  gate,  under  the 
lee  of  a  wall,  some  twenty  men,  women,  and  children, 
were  huddled  together  on  the  bare  ground.  They 
had  been  refused  lodging  in  the  workhouse,  and  were 
going  to  pass  the  night  in  that  situation.  As  he 
came  up  to  them,  coarse  jests,  and  snatches  of  low 
drinking-songs,  ghastly  as  the  laughter  of  lost  spirits 
in  the  pit,  mingled  with  the  feeble  wailings  of  some 
child  of  shame.  The  vicar  recollected  how  he  had 
seen  the  same  sight  at  the  door  of  Kensington  Work- 
house, walking  home  one  night  in  company  with  Luke 
Smith ;  and  how,  too,  he  had  commented  to  him  on 
that  fearful  sign  of  the  times,  and  had  somewhat  un- 
fairly drawn  a  contrast  between  the  niggard  cruelty  of 
"popular  Protestantism,"  and  the  fancied  "liberality 
of  the  middle  age."  What  wonder  if  his  pupil  had 
taken  him  at  his  Avord  ? 

Delighted  to  escape  from  his  own  thoughts  by  any- 
thing like  action,  he  pulled  out  his  purse  to  give  an 
alms.  There  was  no  silver  in  it,  but  only  some  fifteen 
or  twenty  sovereigns,  which  he  that  day  received  as 
payment  for  some  bitter  reviews  in  a  leading  religious 
periodical.  Everything  that  night  seemed  to  shame 
and  confound  him  more.  As  he  touched  the  money, 
Q  y. 


226  THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND. 

there  sprang  up  in  his  mind  in  an  instant  the  thought 
of  the  articles  which  had  procured  it ;  by  one  of  those 
terrible,  searching  inspirations,  in  which  the  light 
which  lighteth  every  man  awakes  as  a  lightning-flash 
of  judgment,  he  saw  them,  and  his  own  heart,  for  one 
moment,  as  they  were  ; — their  blind  prejudice ;  their 
reckless  imputations  of  motives ;  their  wilful  conceal- 
ment of  any  palliating  clauses  ;  their  party  nicknames, 
given  without  a  shudder  at  the  terrible  accusations 
which  they  conveyed.  And  then  the  indignation,  the 
shame,  the  reciprocal  bitterness  which  those  articles 
would  excite,  tearing  still  wider  the  bleeding  wounds 
of  that  Church  which  they  professed  to  defend  !  And 
then,  in  this  case,  too,  the  thought  rushed  across  him, 
"  What  if  I  should  have  been  wrong  and  my  adversary 
right?  What  if  I  have  made  the  heart  of  the 
righteous  sad  whom  God  has  not  made  sad  1  I !  to 
have  been  dealing  out  Heaven's  thunders,  as  if  I  were 
infallible  !  I !  who  am  certain  at  this  moment  of  no 
fact  in  heaven  or  earth,  except  my  own  untruth ! 
God  !  who  am  I  that  I  should  judge  another?"  And 
the  coins  seemed  to  him  like  the  price  of  blood — he 
fancied  that  he  felt  them  red-hot  to  his  hand,  and,  in 
his  eagerness  to  get  rid  of  the  accursed  thing,  he  dealt 
it  away  fiercely  to  the  astonished  group,  amid  whining 
and  flattery,  wrangling  and  ribaldry ;  and  then,  not 
daring  to  wait  and  see  the  use  to  which  his  money 
would  be  put,  hurried  off  to  the  inn,  and  tried  in  un- 
easy slumlwrs  to  forget  the  time,  until  the  mail  passed 
through  at  daybreak  on  its  way  to  Whitford. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

AT  dusk  that  same  evening  the  two  had  started  for 
the  village  fair.  A  velveteen  shooting-jacket,  a  pair 
of  corduroy  trousers,  and  a  waistcoat,  furnished  by 
Tregarva,  covered  with  flowers  of  every  imaginable 
hue,  tolerably  disguised  Lancelot,  who  was  recom- 
mended by  his  conductor  to  keep  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  as  much  as  possible,  lest  their  delicacy,  which 
was,  as  it  happened,  not  very  remarkable,  might  betray 
him.  As  they  walked  together  along  the  plashy  turn- 
pike road,  overtaking,  now  and  then,  groups  of  two  or 
three  who  were  out  on  the  same  errand  as  themselves, 
Lancelot  could  not  help  remarking  to  the  keeper  how 
superior  was  the  look  of  comfort  in  the  boys  and 
young  men,  with  their  ruddy  cheeks  and  smart  dresses, 
to  the  worn  and  haggard  appearance  of  the  elder  men. 

"Let  them  alone,  poor  fellows,"  said  Tregarva; 
"  it  won't  last  long.  When  they've  got  two  or  three 
children  at  their  heels,  they'll  look  as  thin  and  shabby 
as  their  own  fathers." 

"  They  must  spend  a  great  deal  of  money  on  their 
clothes." 


228  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

"  And  on  their  stomachs,  too,  sir.  They  never  lay 
by  a  farthing ;  and  I  don't  see  how  they  can,  when 
their  club -money's  paid,  and  their  insides  are  well 
filled." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  they  actually  have  not 
as  much  to  eat  after  they  marry?" 

"  Indeed  and  I  do,  sir.  They  get  no  more  wages 
afterwards  round  here,  and  have  four  or  five  to  clothe 
and  feed  off  the  same  money  that  used  to  keep 
one;  and  that  sum  won't  take  long  to  work  out,  I 
think." 

"  But  do  they  not  in  some  places  pay  the  married 
men  higher  wages  than  the  unmarried  ?" 

"  That's  a  worse  trick  still,  sir ;  for  it  tempts  the 
poor  thoughtless  hoys  to  go  and  marry  the  first  girl 
they  can  get  hold  of ;  and  it  don't  want  much  per- 
suasion to  make  them  do  that  at  any  time." 

"  But  why  don't  the  clergymen  teach  them  to  put 
into  the  savings  banks?" 

"  One  here  and  there,  sir,  says  what  he  can,  though 
it's  of  very  little  use.  Besides,  every  one  is  afraid  of 
savings  banks  now ;  not  a  year  but  one  reads  of  some 
breaking  and  the  lawyers  going  off  with  the  earnings 
of  the  poor.  And  if  they  didn't,  youth's  a  foolish 
time  at  best ;  and  the  carnal  man  will  be  hankering 
after  amusement,  sir — amusement" 

"  And  no  wonder,"  said  Lancelot ;  "  at  all  events, 
I  should  not  think  they  got  much  of  it  But  it  does 
seem  strange  that  no  other  amusement  can  be  found 
for  them  than  the  beer-shop.  Can't  they  read  ?  Can't 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  229 

they  practise  light  and  interesting  handicrafts  at  home, 
as  the  German  peasantry  doT' 

"  Who'll  teach  'em,  sir  ?  From  the  plough-tail  to 
the  reaping-hook,  and  back  again,  is  all  they  know. 
Besides,  sir,  they  are  not  like  us  Cornish ;  they  are  a 
stupid  pig-headed  generation  at  the  best,  these  south 
countrymen.  They're  grown-up  babies  who  want  the 
parson  and  the  squire  to  be  leading  them,  and  preaching 
to  them,  and  spurring  them  on,  and  coaxing  them  up, 
every  moment.  And  as  for  scholarship,  sir,  a  boy 
leaves  school  at  nine  or  ten  to  follow  the  horses ;  and 
between  that  time  and  his  wedding-day  he  forgets 
every  word  he  ever  learnt,  and  becomes,  for  the  most 
part,  as  thorough  a  heathen  savage  at  heart  as  those 
wild  Indians  in  the  Brazils  used  to  be." 

"And  then  we  call  them  civilised  Englishmen!" 
said  Lancelot.  "  We  can  see  that  your  Indian  is  a 
savage,  because  he  wears  skins  and  feathers;  but 
your  Irish  cottar  or  your  English  labourer,  because 
he  happens  to  wear  a  coat  and  trousers,  is  to  be  con- 
sidered a  civilised  man." 

"It's  the  way  of  the  world,  sir,"  said  Tregarva, 
"  judging  carnal  judgment,  according  to  the  sight  of 
its  own  eyes ;  always  looking  at  the  outsides  of  things 
and  men,  sir,  and  never  much  deeper.  But  as  for 
reading,  sir,  it's  all  very  well  for  me,  who  have  been 
a  keeper  and  dawdled  about  like  a  gentleman  with  a 
gun  over  my  arm ;  but  did  you  ever  do  a  good  day's 
farm -work  in  your  life  1  If  you  had,  man  or  boy, 
you  wouldn't  have  been  game  for  much  reading  when 


230  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

you  got  home ;  you'd  do  just  what  these  poor  fellows 
do, — tumble  into  bed  at  eight  o'clock,  hardly  waiting 
to  take  your  clothes  off,  knowing  that  you  must  turn 
up  again  at  five  o'clock  the  next  morning  to  get  a 
breakfast  of  bread,  and,  perhaps,  a  dab  of  the  squire's 
dripping,  and  then  back  to  work  again ;  and  so  on, 
day  after  day,  sir,  week  after  week,  year  after  year, 
without  a  hope  or  a  chance  of  being  anything  but 
what  you  are,  and  only  too  thankful  if  you  can  get 
work  to  break  your  back,  and  catch  the  rheumatism 
over." 

"  But  do  you  mean  to  say  that  their  labour  is  so 
severe  and  incessant  ?" 

"  It's  only  God's  blessing  if  it  is  incessant,  sir,  for 
if  it  stops,  they  starve,  or  go  to  the  house  to  be  worse 
fed  than  the  thieves  in  gaol  And  as  for  its  being 
severe,  there's  many  a  boy,  as  their  mothers  will  tell 
you,  comes  homo  night  after  night,  too  tired  to  eat 
their  suppers,  and  tumble,  fasting,  to  bed  in  the  same 
foul  shirt  which  they've  been  working  in  all  the  day, 
never  changing  their  rag  of  calico  from  week's  end  to 
week's  end,  or  washing  the  skin  that's  under  it  once 
in  seven  yean." 

"  No  wonder,"  said  Lancelot,  "  that  such  a  life  of 
drudgery  makes  them  brutal  and  reckless." 

"No  wonder,  indeed,  sir:  they've  no  time  to 
think ;  they're  born  to  be  machines,  and  machines 
they  must  be ;  and  I  think,  sir,"  he  added  bitterly, 
"  it's  God's  mercy  that  they  daren't  think.  It's  God's 
mercy  that  they  don't  feel  Men  that  write  books 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  231 

and  talk  at  elections  call  this  a  free  country,  and  say 
that  the  poorest  and  meanest  has  a  free  opening  to 
rise  and  become  prime  minister,  if  he  can.  But  you 
see,  sir,  the  misfortune  is,  that  in  practice  he  can't; 
for  one  who  gets  into  a  gentleman's  family,  or  into  a 
little  shop,  and  so  saves  a  few  pounds,  fifty  know  that 
they've  no  chance  before  them,  but  day-labourer  born, 
day-labourer  live,  from  hand  to  mouth,  scraping  and 
pinching  to  get  not  meat  and  beer  even,  but  bread 
and  potatoes;  and  then,  at  the  end  of  it  all,  for  a 
worthy  reward,  half-a-crown  a-week  of  parish  pay — or 
the  workhouse.  That's  a  lively  hopeful  prospect  for 
a  Christian  man !" 

"  But,"  said  Lancelot,  "  I  thought  this  New  Poor- 
law  was  to  stir  them  up  to  independence  ?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  the  old  law  has  bit  too  deep :  it  made 
them  slaves  and  beggars  at  heart.  It  taught  them 
not  to  be  ashamed  of  parish  pay — to  demand  it  as  a 
right." 

"And  so  it  is  their  right,"  said  Lancelot.  "In 
God's  name,  if  a  country  is  so  ill-constituted  that  it 
cannot  find  its  own  citizens  in  work,  it  is  bound  to 
find  them  in  food." 

"Maybe,  sir,  maybe.  God  knows  I  don't  grudge 
it  them.  It's  a  poor  pittance  at  best,  when  they  have 
got  it.  But  don't  you  see,  sir,  how  all  poor-laws,  old 
or  new  either,  suck  the  independent  spirit  out  of  a 
man ;  how  they  make  the  poor  wretch  reckless ;  how 
they  tempt  him  to  spend  every  extra  farthing  in 
amusement?" 


232  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

"  How  then  ?" 

'•  Why,  he  is  always  tempted  to  say  to  himself, 
'  Whatever  happens  to  me,  the  parish  must  keep  me. 
If  I  am  sick  it  must  doctor  me ;  if  I  am  worn  out  it 
must  feed  me ;  if  I  die  it  must  bury  me ;  if  I  leave 
my  children  paupers  the  parish  must  look  after  them, 
and  they'll  be  as  well  off  with  the  parish  as  they  were 
with  me.  Now  they've  only  got  just  enough  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together,  and  the  parish  can't  give  them 
less  than  that  What's  the  use  of  cutting  myself  off 
from  sixpenny-worth  of  pleasure  here,  and  sixpenny- 
worth  there.  I'm  not  saving  money  for  my  children, 
I'm  only  saving  the  farmers'  rates'  Tlxre  it  is,  sir," 
said  Tregarva;  "that's  the  bottom  of  it,  sir,  —  'I'm 
only  saving  the  farmers'  rates.  Let  us  eat  and  drink, 
for  to-morrow  we  die  ! ' " 

"  I  don't  see  my  way  out  of  it,"  said  Lancelot 

"  So  says  everybody,  sir.  But  I  should  have 
thought  those  members  of  parliament,  and  statesmen, 
and  university  scholars  have  been  set  up  in  the  high 
places,  out  of  the  wood  where  we  are  all  struggling 
and  scrambling,  just  that  they  might  see  their  way 
out  of  it ;  and  if  they  don't,  sir,  and  that  soon,  as  sure 
as  God  is  in  heaven,  these  poor  fellows  will  cut  their 
way  out  of  it" 

"  And  blindfolded  and  ignorant  as  they  are,"  said 
Lancelot,  "  they  will  be  certain  to  cut  their  way  out 
just  in  the  wrong  directioa" 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  sir,"  saiil  Tro^arva,  1"\\ '  T- 
ing  his  voice.  "  What  is  written  ?  That  there  is  One 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  233 

who  hears  the  desire  of  the  poor.  '  Lord,  Thou  pre- 
parest  their  hearts  and  Thine  ear  hearkeneth  thereto, 
to  help  the  fatherless  and  poor  unto  their  right,  that 
the  man  of  the  earth  be  no  more  exalted  against 
them.'" 

"Why  you  are  talking  like  any  Chartist,  Tregarva ! " 

"Am  I,  sir?  I  haven't  heard  much  Scripture 
quoted  among  them  myself,  poor  fellows ;  but  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  sir,  I  don't  know  what  I  am  becoming. 
I'm.  getting  half  mad  with  all  I  see  going  on  and  not 
going  on;  and  you  will  agree,  sir,  that  what's  happened 
this  day  can't  have  done  much  to  cool  my  temper  or 
brighten  my  hopes  ;  though,  God's  my  witness,  there's 
no  spite  in  me  for  my  own  sake.  But  what  makes 
me  maddest  of  all,  sir,  is  to  see  that  everybody  sees 
these  evils,  except  just  the  men  who  can  cure  them — 
the  squires  and  the  clergy." 

"  Why  surely,  Tregarva,  there  are  hundreds,  if  not 
thousands,  of  clergymen  and  landlords  working  heart 
and  soul  at  this  moment,  to  better  the  condition  of 
the  labouring  classes !" 

"  Ay,  sir,  they  see  the  evils,  and  yet  they  don't  see 
them.  They  do  not  see  what  is  the  matter  with  the 
poor  man ;  and  the  proof  of  it  is,  sir,  that  the  poor 
have  no  confidence  in  them.  They'll  take  their  alms, 
but  they'll  hardly  take  their  schooling,  and  their 
advice  they  won't  take  at  all.  And  why  is  it,  sir1? 
Because  the  poor  have  got  in  their  heads  in  these 
days  a  strange  confused  fancy,  maybe,  but  still  a  deep 
and  a  fierce  one,  that  they  haven't  got  what  they  call 


234  THE  TILLAGE  REVEL. 

their  rights.  If  you  were  to  raise  the  wages  of  every 
man  in  tliis  country  from  nine  to  twelve  shillings 
a-week  to-morrow,  you  wouldn't  satisfy  them ;  at  least, 
the  only  ones  whom  you  would  satisfy  would  be  the 
mere  hogs  among  them,  who,  as  long  as  they  can  get 
a  full  stomach,  care  for  nothing  else." 

"  What,  in  Heaven's  name,  do  they  want  V  asked 
Lancelot 

"  They  hardly  know  yet,  sir ;  but  they  know  well 
what  they  don't  want  The  question  with  them,  sir, 
believe  me,  is  not  so  much,  How  shall  we  get  better 
fed  and  better  housed,  but  whom  shall  we  dejMjnd 
upon  for  our  food  and  for  our  house  ?  Why  should 
we  depend  on  the  will  and  fancy  of  any  man  for  our 
rights  ?  They  are  asking  ugly  questions  among  them- 
selves, sir,  about  what  those  two  words,  rent  and  taxes, 
mean,  and  about  what  that  same  strange  word,  free- 
dom, means.  Right  or  wrong,  they've  got  the  thought 
into  their  heads,  and  it's  growing  there,  and  they  will 
find  an  answer  for  it  Depend  upon  it,  sir,  I  tell  you 
a  truth,  and  they  expect  a  change.  You  will  hear 
them  talk  of  it  to-night,  sir,  if  you've  luck" 

"Wo  all  expect  a  change,  for  that  matter,"  said 
Lancelot  "That  feeling  is  common  to  all  classes 
and  parties  just  now." 

Tregarva  took  off  his  hat 

"'For  the  word  of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  it'  Do 
you  know,  sir,  I  long  at  times  that  I  did  agree  with 
those  Chartists  ?  If  I  did,  I'd  turn  lecturer  to-morrow. 
How  a  man  could  speak  out  then !  If  he  saw  any 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  235 

door  of  hope,  any  way  of  salvation  for  these  poor 
fellows,  even  if  it  was  nothing  better  than  salvation 
by  Act  of  Parliament ! " 

"But  why  don't  you  trust  the  truly  worthy  among 
the  clergy  and  the  gentry  to  leaven  their  own  ranks 
and  bring  all  right  in  time  ?" 

"  Because,  sir,  they  seem  to  be  going  the  way  only 
to  make  things  worse.  The  people  have  been  so 
dependent  on  them  heretofore,  that  they  have  become 
thorough  beggars.  You  can  have  no  knowledge,  sir, 
of  the  whining,  canting,  deceit,  and  lies  which  those 
poor  miserable  labourers'  wives  palm  on  charitable 
ladies.  If  they  weren't  angels,  some  of  them,  they'd 
lock  up  their  purses  and  never  give  away  another 
farthing.  And,  sir,  these  free -schools,  and  these 
penny-clubs,  and  clothing-clubs,  and  these  heaps  of 
money  which  are  given  away,  all  make  the  matter 
worse  and  worse.  They  make  the  labourer  fancy  that 
he  is  not  to  depend  upon  God  and  his  own  right  hand, 
but  on  what  his  wife  can  worm  out  of  the  good  nature 
of  the  rich.  Why,  sir,  they  growl  as  insolently  now 
at  the  parson  or  the  squire's  wife  if  they  don't  get  as 
much  money  as  their  neighbours,  as  they  used  to  at 
the  parish  vestrymen  under  the  old  law.  Look  at  that 
Lord  Vieuxbois,  sir,  as  sweet  a  gentleman  as  ever  God 
made.  It  used  to  do  me  good  to  walk  behind  him 
when  he  came  over  here  shooting,  just  to  hear  the 
gentle  kind-hearted  way  in  which  he  used  to  speak  to 
every  old  soul  he  met.  He  spends  his  whole  life  and 
time  about  the  poor,  I  hear.  But,  sir,  as  sure  as  you 


236  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

live  he's  making  his  jx;ople  slaves  anil  humbugs.  He 
doesn't  see,  sir,  that  they  want  to  be  raised  bodily 
out  of  this  miserable  hand-to-mouth  state,  to  be 
brought  nearer  up  to  him,  and  set  on  a  footing  where 
they  can  shift  for  themselves.  Without  meaning  it, 
sir,  all  his  boundless  charities  are  keeping  the  people 
down,  and  telling  them  they  must  stay  down,  and  not 
help  themselves,  but  wait  for  what  he  gives  them. 
He  fats  prize-labourers,  sir,  just  as  Lord  Minchamp- 
stead  fats  prize-oxen  and  pigs." 

Lancelot  could  not  help  thinking  of  that  amusingly 
inconsistent,  however  well-meant,  scene  in  Coniiignby, 
in  which  Mr.  Lyle  is  represented  as  trying  to  restore 
"the  independent  order  of  peasantry,"  by  making 
them  the  receivei-s  of  public  alms  at  his  own  gate,  as 
if  they  had  been  middle-age  serfs  or  vagabonds,  and 
not  citizens  of  modern  England. 

"  It  may  suit  the  Mr.  Lyles  of  this  age,"  thought 
Lancelot,  "  to  make  the  people  constantly  and  visibly 
comprehend  that  property  is  their  protector  and  their 
friend,  but  I  question  whether  it  will  suit  the  people 
themselves,  unless  they  can  make  property  understand 
that  it  owes  them  something  more  definite  than  pro- 
tection." 

Saddened  by  this  conversation,  which  had  helped 
to  give  another  shako  to  the  easy-going  complacency 
with  which  Lancelot  had  been  used  to  contemplate 
the  world  below  him,  and  look  on  its  evils  as  neces- 
saries, ancient  and  fixed  as  the  universe,  ho  entered 
the  village  fair,  and  was  a  little  disappointed  at  his 


THE  VILLAGE  KEVEL.  237 

first  glimpse  of  the  village-green.  Certainly  his  ex- 
pectations had  not  been  very  exalted ;  but  there  had 
run  through  them  a  hope  of  something  melodramatic, 
dreams  of  May-pole  dancing  and  athletic  games,  some- 
what of  village-belle  rivalry,  of  the  Corin  and  Sylvia 
school;  or,  failing  that,  a  few  Touchstones  and  Audreys, 
some  genial  earnest  buffo  humour  here  and  there. 
But  there  did  not  seem  much  likelihood  of  it.  Two 
or  three  apple  and  gingerbread  stalls,  from  which 
draggled  children  were  turning  slowly  and  wistfully 
away  to  go  home ;  a  booth  full  of  trumpery  fairings, 
in  front  of  which  tawdry  girls  were  coaxing  maudlin 
youths,  with  faded  southernwood  in  their  button-holes ; 
another  long  low  booth,  from  every  crevice  of  which 
reeked  odours  of  stale  beer  and  smoke,  by  courtesy 
denominated  tobacco,  to  the  treble  accompaniment  of 
a  jigging  fiddle  and  a  tambourine,  and  the  bass  one 
of  grumbled  oaths  and  curses  within — these  were  the 
means  of  relaxation  which  the  piety,  freedom,  and 
civilisation  of  fourteen  centuries,  from  Hengist  to 
Queen  Victoria,  had  devised  and  made  possible  for 
the  English  peasant ! 

"  There  seems  very  little  here  to  see,"  said  Lance- 
lot, half  peevishly. 

"I  think,  sir,"  quoth  Tregarva,  "that  very  thing 
is  what's  most  worth  seeing." 

Lancelot  could  not  help,  even  at  the  risk  of  detec- 
tion, investing  capital  enough  in  sugar -plums  and 
ginger-bread,  to  furnish  the  urchins  around  with  the 
material  for  a  whole  carnival  of  stomach-aches ;  and 


238  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

he  felt  a  groat  inclination  to  clear  the  fairing-stall  in 
a  like  manner,  on  behalf  of  the  poor  bedizened  sickly- 
looking  girls  round,  but  ho  was  afraid  of  the  jealousy 
of  some  beor-bemuddled  swain.  The  ill-looks  of  the 
young  girls  surprised  him  much.  Here  and  there 
smiled  a  plump  rosy  face  enough ;  but  the  majority 
seemed  under- sized,  under -fed,  utterly  wanting  in 
grace,  vigour,  and  what  the  penny-a-liners  call  "rude 
health."  He  remarked  it  to  Tregarva.  The  keeper 
smiled  mournfully. 

"You  see  those  little  creatures  dragging  home 
babies  in  arms  nearly  as  big  as  themselves,  sir.  That 
and  bad  food,  want  of  milk  especially,  accounts  for 
their  growing  up  no  bigger  than  they  do ;  and  as  for 
their  sail  countenances,  sir,  most  of  them  must  carry 
a  lighter  conscience  before  they  carry  a  brighter  face." 

"What  do  you  mean  1"  asked  Lancelot" 

"  The  clergyman  who  enters  the  weddings  and  the 
baptisms  knows  well  enough  what  I  mean,  sir.  But 
we'll  go  into  that  booth,  if  you  want  to  see  the  thick 
of  it,  sir;  that's  to  say,  if  you're  not  ashamed." 

"  I  hope  we  need  neither  of  us  do  anything  to  be 
ashamed  of  there  ;  and  as  for  seeing,  I  begin  to  agree 
with  you,  that  what  makes  the  whole  thing  most 
curious  is  its  intense  dulness." 

"  What  upon  earth  is  that?" 

"  I  say,  look  out  there  !" 

"  Well,  you  look  out  yourself  1" 

This  was  caused  by  a  violent  blow  across  the  shins 
with  a  thick  stick,  the  deed  of  certain  drunken  wise- 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  239 

acres  who  were  persisting  in  playing  in  the  dark  the 
never  very  lucrative  game  of  three  sticks  a  penny, 
conducted  by  a  couple  of  gipsies.  Poor  fellows ! 
there  was  one  excuse  for  them.  It  was  the  only 
thing  there  to  play  at,  except  a  set  of  skittles ;  and 
on  those  they  had  lost  their  money  every  Saturday 
night  for  the  last  seven  years  each  at  his  own  village 
beer-shop. 

So  into  the  booth  they  turned;  and  as  soon  as 
Lancelot's  eyes  were  accustomed  to  the  reeking  atmo- 
sphere, he  saw  seated  at  two  long  temporary,  tables 
of  board,  fifty  or  sixty  of  "  My  Brethren,"  as  clergy- 
men call  them  in  their  sermons,  wrangling,  stupid, 
beery,  with  sodden  eyes  and  drooping  lips — inter- 
spersed with  more  girls  and  brazen-faced  women,  with 
dirty  flowers  in  their  caps,  whose  whole  business 
seemed  to  be  to  cast  jealous  looks  at  each  other,  and 
defend  themselves  from  the  coarse  overtures  of  their 
swains. 

Lancelot  had  been  already  perfectly  astonished  at 
the  foulness  of  language  which  prevailed ;  and  the 
utter  absence  of  anything  like  chivalrous  respect, 
almost  of  common  decency,  towards  women.  But  lo  ! 
the  language  of  the  elder  women  was  quite  as  disgust- 
ing as  that  of  the  men,  if  not  worse.  He  whispered 
a  remark  on  the  point  to  Tregarva,  who  shook  his 
head. 

"  It's  the  field-work,  sir — the  field-work,  that  does 
it  all.  They  get  accustomed  there  from  their  child- 
hood to  hear  words  whose  very  meanings  thsy 


240  THE  VILLAGE  REVKL. 

shouldn't  know ;  and  the  elder  teach  the  younger 
ones,  and  the  married  ones  are  worst  of  all.  It  wears 
them  out  in  body,  sir,  that  field-work,  and  makes 
them  brutes  in  soul  and  in  manners." 

11  Why  don't  they  give  it  up?  Why  don't  the  re- 
spectable ones  set  their  faces  against  it?" 

"  They  can't  afford  it,  sir.  They  must  go  a-field, 
or  go  hungered,  most  of  them.  And  they  get  to  like 
the  gossip  and  scandal,  and  coarse  fun  of  it,  while 
their  children  are  left  at  home  to  play  in  the  roads, 
or  fall  into  the  fire,  as  plenty  do  every  year." 

"  Why  not  at  school  1" 

"The  big  ones  are  kept  at  home,  sir,  to  play  at 
nursing  those  little  ones  who  are  too  young  to  go. 
Oh,  sir,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling,  "  it  is 
very  little  of  a  father's  care,  or  a  mother's  love,  that 
a  labourer's  child  knows  in  these  days  ! " 

Lancelot  looked  round  the  booth  with  a  hopeless 
feeling.  There  was  awkward  dancing  going  on  at  the 
upper  end.  He  was  too  much  sickened  to  go  and 
look  at  it  He  began  examining  the  faces  and  fore- 
heads of  the  company,  and  was  astonished  at  the  first 
glance  by  the  lofty  and  ample  development  of  bruin 
in  at  least  one  half.  There  were  intellects  there — or 
rather  capacities  of  intellect,  capable,  surely,  of  any- 
thing, had  not  the  promise  of  the  brow  been  almost 
always  belied  by  the  loose  and  sensual  lower  featurea 
They  were  evidently  rather  a  derailed  than  an  un- 
developed race.  "The  low  forehead  of  the  Kabyle 
and  Koord,"  thought  Lancelot,  "is  compensated  by 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  241 

the  grim  sharp  lip,  and  glittering  eye,  which  prove 
that  all  the  small  capabilities  of  the  man  have  been 
called  out  into  clear  and  vigorous  action  :  but  here  the 
very  features  themselves,  both  by  what  they  have  and 
what  they  want,  testify  against  that  society  which 
carelessly  wastes  her  most  precious  wealth,  the  man- 
hood of  her  masses  !  Tregarva  !  you  have  observed  a 
good  many  things — did  you  ever  observe  whether  the 
men  with  the  large  foreheads  were  better  than  the 
men  with  the  small  ones  ?" 

"Ay,  sir,  I  know  what  you  are  driving  at.  I've 
heard  of  that  new-fangled  notion  of  scholars,  which, 
if  you'll  forgive  my  plain  speaking,  expects  man's 
brains  to  do  the  work  of  God's  grace." 

"  But  what  have  you  remarked  ?" 

"  All  I  ever  saw  was,  that  the  stupid-looking  ones 
were  the  greatest  blackguards,  and  the  clever-looking 
ones  the  greatest  rogues." 

Lancelot  was  rebuked,  but  not  surprised.  He  had 
been  for  some  time  past  suspecting,  from  the  bitter 
experience  of  his  own  heart,  the  favourite  modern 
theory  which  revives  the  Neo-Platonism  of  Alexandria, 
by  making  intellect  synonymous  with  virtue,  and  then 
jumbling,  like  poor  bewildered  Proclus,  the  "physical 
understanding"  of  the  brain,  with  the  "pure  intellect" 
of  the  spirit. 

"You'll  see  something,  if  you  look  round,  sir,  a 
great  deal  easier  to  explain — and,  I  should  have 
thought,  a  great  deal  easier  to  cure — than  want  of 
wits." 


242  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

"  And  what  is  that  ?" 

"  How  different-looking  the  young  ones  are  from 
their  fathers,  and  still  more  from  their  grandfathers  ! 
Look  at  those  three  or  four  old  grammers  talking 
together  there.  For  all  their  being  shrunk  with  age 
and  weather,  you  won't  see  such  fine-grown  men  any- 
where else  in  this  booth." 

It  was  too  true.  Lancelot  recollected  now  having 
remarked  it  before  when  at  church ;  and  having 
wondered  why  almost  all  the  youths  were  so  much 
smaller,  clumsier,  lower -brained,  and  weaker-jawed 
than  their  elders. 

"Why  is  it,  Tregarva?" 

"  Worse  food,  worse  lodging,  worse  nursing — and, 
I'm  sore  afraid,  worse  blood.  There  was  too  much 
filthiness  and  drunkenness  went  on  in  the  old  war- 
times, not  to  leave  a  taint  behind  it,  for  many  a 
generation.  The  prosperity  of  fools  shall  destroy 
them!" 

"Oh  !"  thought  Lancelot,  "for  some  young  sturdy 
Lancashire  or  Lothian  blood,  to  put  new  life  into  the 
old  frozen  South  Saxon  veins !  Even  a  drop  of  the 
warm  enthusiastic  Celtic  would  be  better  than  none. 
Perhaps  this  Irish  immigration  may  do  some  good, 
after  all" 

Perhaps  it  may,  Lancelot  Let  us  hope  so,  since 
it  is  pretty  nearly  inevitable. 

Sadder  and  sadder,  Lancelot  tried  to  listen  to  the 
conversation  of  the  men  round  him.  To  his  astonish- 
ment he  hardly  understood  a  word  of  it.  It  was  half 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  243 

articulate,  nasal,  guttural,  made  up  almost  entirely  of 
vowels,  like  the  speech  of  savages.  He  had  never 
before  been  struck  with  the  significant  contrast  be- 
tween the  sharp,  clearly-defined  articulation,  the  vivid 
and  varied  tones  of  the  gentleman,  or  even  of  the 
London  street-boy,  when  compared  with  the  coarse, 
half-formed  growls,  as  of  a  company  of  seals,  which 
he  heard  round  him.  That  single  fact  struck  him, 
perhaps,  more  deeply  than  any;  it  connected  itself 
with  many  of  his  physiological  fancies;  it  was  the 
parent  of  many  thoughts  and  plans  of  his  after-life. 
Here  and  there  he  could  distinguish  a  half  sentence. 
An  old  shrunken  man  opposite  him  was  drawing 
figures  in  the  spilt  beer  with  his  pipe-stem,  and  dis- 
coursing of  the  glorious  times  before  the  great  war, 
"  when  there  was  more  food  than  there  were  mouths, 
and  more  work  than  there  were  hands."  "  Poor 
human  nature ! "  thought  Lancelot,  as  he  tried  to 
follow  one  of  those  unintelligible  discussions  about 
the  relative  prices  of  the  loaf  and  the  bushel  of  flour, 
which  ended,  as  usual,  in  more  swearing,  and  more 
quarrelling,  and  more  beer  to  make  it  up — "Poor 
human  nature !  always  looking  back,  as  the  German 
sage  says,  to  some  fancied  golden  age,  never  looking 
forward  to  the  real  one  which  is  coming  ! " 

"But  I  say,  vather,"  drawled  out  some  one,  "they 
say  there's  a  sight  more  money  in  England  now,  than 
there  was  afore  the  war-time." 

"  Eees,  booy,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  but  it's  got  into 
too  few  Jiands." 


244  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

"  Well,"  thought  Lancelot,  "  there's  a  glimpse  of 
practical  sense,  at  least"  And  a  pedlar  who  sat  next 
him,  a  bold,  black-whiskered  bully,  from  the  Potteries, 
hazarded  a  joke, — 

"It's  all  along  of  this  new  sky-and-tough-it  farming. 
They  used  to  spread  the  money  broadcast,  but  now 
they  drills  it  all  in  one  place,  like  bone-dust  under 
their  fancy  plants,  and  we  poor  self-sown  chaps  gets 
none." 

This  garland  of  fancies  was  received  with  great 
applause ;  whereat  the  pedlar,  emboldened,  proceeded 
to  observe,  mysteriously,  that  "  donkeys  took  a  beat- 
ing, but  horses  kicked  at  it ;  and  that  they'd  found 
out  that  in  Staffordshire  long  ago.  You  want  a  good 
Chartist  lecturer  down  here,  my  covies,  to  show  you 
donkeys  of  labouring  men  that  you  have  got  iron  on 
your  heels,  if  you  only  know'd  how  to  use  it " 

"And  what's  the  use  of  rioting?"  asked  some  one, 
querulously. 

"  Why,  if  you  don't  riot,  the  farmers  will  starve 
you." 

"  And  if  we  do,  they'd  turn  sodgers — yeomanry,  as 
they  call  it,  though  there  ain't  a  yeoman  among  them 
in  these  parts;  and  then  they  takes  sword  and  kills 
us.  So,  riot  or  none,  they  has  it  all  their  own  way." 

Lancelot  heard  many  more  scraps  of  this  sort  He 
was  very  much  struck  with  their  dread  of  violence. 
It  did  not  seem  cowardice.  It  was  not  loyalty — the 
English  labourer  has  fallen  below  the  <-;i|>;il>ility  of 
so  spiritual  a  feeling ;  Lancelot  had  found  out  that 


THE  VILLAGE  EEVEL.  245 

already.  It  could  not  be  apathy,  for  he  heard  nothing 
but  complaint  upon  complaint  bandied  from  mouth 
to  mouth  the  whole  evening.  They  seemed  rather 
sunk  too  low  in  body  and  mind, — too  stupefied  and 
spiritless,  to  follow  the  example  of  the  manufacturing 
districts ;  above  all,  they  were  too  ill-informed.  It  is 
not  mere  starvation  which  goads  the  Leicester  weaver 
to  madness.  It  is  starvation  with  education, — an 
empty  stomach  and  a  cultivated,  even  though  mis- 
cultivated,  mind. 

At  that  instant,  a  huge  hulking  farm-boy  rolled 
into  the  booth,  roaring,  dolefully,  the  end  of  a  song, 
with  a  punctuation  of  his  own  invention — 

"  He'll  maak  me  a  lady  .   Zo  .  Vine  to  be  zyure. 
And,  vaithfully  ;  love  me.     Although;  I;  be-e  ;  poor-r-r-r." 

Lancelot  would  have  laughed  heartily  at  him  any- 
where else ;  but  the  whole  scene  was  past  a  jest ;  and 
a  gleam  of  pathos  and  tenderness  seemed  to  shine 
even  from  that  doggerel, — a  vista,  as  it  were,  of  true 
genial  nature,  in  the  far  distance.  But  as  he  looked 
round  again,  "What  hope,"  he  thought,  "of  its  reali- 
sation ?  Arcadian  dreams  of  pastoral  innocence  and 
graceful  industry,  I  suppose,  are  to  be  henceforth 
monopolised  by  the  stage  or  the  boudoir  ?  Never,  so 
help  me,  God!" 

The  ursine  howls  of  the  new-comer  seemed  to  have 
awakened  the  spirit  of  music  in  the  party. 

"  Coom,  Blackburd,  gi'  us  zong,  Blackburd,  bo' ! " 
cried  a  dozen  voices  to  an  impish,  dark-eyed  gipsy 
boy,  of  some  thirteen  years  old. 


246  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

"  Put  'n  on  taable.     Now,  then,  pipe  up ! " 

"  What  will  'ee  ha'  ?" 

"  Mary ;  gi'  us  Mary." 

"I  shall  make  a'  girls  cry,"  quoth  Blackbird,  with 
a  grin. 

"  Do  'n  good,  too ;  they  likes  it :  zing  away." 

And  the  boy  began,  in  a  broad  country  twang, 
which  could  not  overpower  the  sad  melody  of  the  air, 
or  the  rich  sweetness  of  his  flute-like  voice, — 

"  Young  Mary  walked  sadly  down  through  the  green  clover, 

And  sighed  as  she  looked  at  the  babe  at  her  breast ; 
'  My  roses  are  faded,  my  false  love  a  rover, 

The  green  graves  they  call  me,  "  Come  home  to  your  reBt*" 

"  Then  by  rode  a  soldier  in  gorgeous  arraying, 

And  '  Where  is  your  bride-ring,  my  fair  maid  ?'  he  cried  ; 
'  I  ne'er  had  a  bride-ring,  by  false  man's  betraying, 
Nor  token  of  love  but  this  babe  at  my  side. 

" '  Tho'  gold  could  not  buy  me,  sweet  words  could  deceive  me  ; 

So  faithful  and  lonely  till  death  I  must  roam.' 
'  Oh,  Mary,  sweet  Mary,  look  up  and  forgive  me, 

With  wealth  and  with  glory  your  true  love  comes  home  ; 

" '  So  give  me  my  own  Irnbe,  those  soft  arms  adorning, 

I'll  wed  you  and  cherish  you,  never  to  stray  ; 
For  it's  many  a  dark  and  a  wild  cloudy  moming, 
Turns  out  by  the  noon-time  a  sunshiny  day.'" 

"A  bad  moral  that,  sir,"  whispered  Tregarva. 

"  Better  than  none,"  answered  Lancelot 

"  It's  well  if  you  are  right,  sir,  for  you'll  hear  no 
other." 

The  keeiHjr  spoke  truly  ;  in  a  dozen  different  songs, 
more  or  less  coarsely,  but,  in  general,  with  a  dash  of 
pathetic  sentiment,  the  same  case  of  lawless  love  was 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  247 

embodied.  It  seemed  to  be  their  only  notion  of  the 
romantic.  Now  and  then  there  was  a  poaching  song ; 
then  one  of  the  lowest  flash  London  school — filth  and 
all — was  roared  in  chorus  in  presence  of  the  women. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  do  not  thank  me  for  having 
brought  you  to  any  place  so  unfit  for  a  gentleman," 
said  Tregarva,  seeing  Lancelot's  sad  face. 

"  Because  it  is  so  unfit  for  a  gentleman,  therefore 
I  do  thank  you.  It  is  right  to  know  what  one's  own 
flesh  and  blood  are  doing." 

"  Hark  to  that  song,  sir !  that's  an  old  one.  I 
didn't  think  they'd  get  on  to  singing  that." 

The  Blackbird  was  again  on  the  table,  but  seemed 
this  time  disinclined  to  exhibit. 

"  Out  wi'  un,  boy ;  it  wain't  burn  thy  mouth  ! " 

"I  be  afeard." 

"O'who?" 

"  Keeper  there." 

He  pointed  to  Tregarva ;  there  was  a  fierce  growl 
round  the  room. 

"I  am  no  keeper,"  shouted  Tregarva,  starting  up. 
"  I  was  turned  off"  this  morning  for  speaking  my  mind 
about  the  squires,  and  now  I'm  one  of  you,  to  live  and 
die." 

This  answer  was  received  with  a  murmur  of  ap- 
plause ;  and  a  fellow  in  a  scarlet  merino  neckerchief, 
three  waistcoats,  and  a  fancy  shooting-jacket,  who  had 
been  eyeing  Lancelot  for  some  time,  sidled  up  behind 
them,  and  whispered  in  Tregarva's  ear, — 

"  Perhaps  you'd  like  an  engagement  in  our  line, 


248  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

young  man,  and  your  friend  there,  he  seems  a  sporting 
gent  too. — We  could  show  him  very  pretty  shooting." 

Tregarva  answered  by  the  first  and  last  oath 
Lancelot  ever  heard  from  him,  and  turning  to  him,  as 
the  rascal  sneaked  off, — 

"  That's  a  poaching  crimp  from  London,  sir ;  tempt- 
ing these  poor  boys  to  sin,  and  deceit,  and  drunken- 
ness, and  theft,  and  the  hulks." 

"  I  fancy  I  saw  him  somewhere  the  night  of  our 
row — you  understand?" 

"So  do  I,  sir,  but  there's  no  use  talking  of  it" 

Blackbird  was  by  this  time  prevailed  on  to  sing, 
and  burst  out  as  melodious  as  ever,  while  all  heads 
were  cocked  on  one  side  in  delighted  attention. 

"  I  zeed  a  vire  o'  Monday  night, 

A  vire  both  great  and  high  ; 
But  I  wool  not  tell  you  where,  my  boys, 

Nor  wool  not  tell  you  why. 
The  varmer  he  cornea  screeching  out, 

To  zave  'uns  new  brood  mare  ; 
Zays  I,  '  You  and  your  stock  may  roast, 

Vor  aught  us  poor  chaps  care.' 

"  Coorus,  boys,  coorus  ! " 
And  the  chorus  burst  out, — 

"  Then  here's  a  curse  on  vanners  all 

As  rob  and  grind  the  poor  ; 
To  re'p  the  fruit  of  all  tlicir  works 
In  **  **  for  evermoor-r-r-r. 

"  A  blind  nwld  dame  come  to  the  vire, 

'/.'<  near  as  she  could  get ; 
/ays,  '  Hero's  a  luck  I  wnrn't  asleep 
To  lose  this  blessed  hett 


THE  VILLAGE  KEVEL.  249 

"  '  They  robs  us  of  our  turfing  rights, 

Our  bits  of  chips  and  sticks, 
Till  poor  folks  now  can't  warm  their  hands, 
Except  by  varmer's  ricks. ' 

"Then,  etc." 

And  again  the  boy's  delicate  voice  rang  out  the 
ferocious  chorus,  with  something,  Lancelot  fancied, 
of  fiendish  exultation,  and  every  worn  face  lighted 
up  with  a  coarse  laugh,  that  indicated  no  malice — 
but  also  no  mercy. 

Lancelot  was  sickened,  and  rose  to  go. 

As  he  turned,  his  arm  was  seized  suddenly  and 
firmly.  He  looked  round,  and  saw  a  coarse,  hand- 
some, showily -dressed  girl,  looking  intently  into  his 
face.  He  shook  her  angrily  off. 

"You  needn't  be  so  proud,  Mr.  Smith;  I've  had 
my  hand  on  the  arm  of  as  good  as  you.  Ah,  you 
needn't  start !  I  know  you — I  know  you,  I  say, 
well  enough.  You  used  to  be  with  him.  Where  is 
he?" 

"Whom  do  you  mean1?" 

"He!"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  fierce,  surprised 
look,  as  if  there  could  be  no  one  else  in  the  world. 

"  Colonel  Bracebridge,"  whispered  Tregarva. 

"Ay,  he  it  is  !  And  now  walk  farther  off,  blood- 
hound !  and  let  me  speak  to  Mr.  Smith.  He  is  in 
Norway,"  she  ran  on  eagerly.  "When  will  he  be 
back?  When?" 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?"  asked  Lancelot. 

"When  will  he  be  back?" — she  kept  on  fiercely 
repeating  the  question ;  and  then  burst  out, — "  Curse 


250  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

you  gentlemen  all !  Cowards  !  you  are  all  in  a  league 
against  us  poor  girls  !  You  can  hunt  alone  when  you 
betray  us,  and  lie  fast  enough  then !  But  when  we 
come  for  justice,  you  all  herd  together  like  a  Hock  of 
rooks ;  and  turn  so  delicate  and  honourable  all  of  a 
sudden — to  each  other !  When  will  he  be  bade, 
Isayt" 

"In  a  month,"  answered  Lancelot,  who  saw  that 
something  really  important  lay  behind  the  girl's  wild- 
ness. 

"Too  late!"  she  cried,  wildly,  clapping  her  hands 
together ;  "  too  late  !  Here — tell  him  you  saw  me  ; 
tell  him  you  saw  Mary  ;  tell  him  where  and  in  what 
a  pretty  place,  too,  for  maid,  master,  or  man  !  What 
are  you  doing  here!" 

"  What  is  that  to  you,  my  good  girl  t" 

"  True.  Tell  him  you  saw  me  here  ;  and  tell  him, 
when  next  he  hears  of  me,  it  will  be  in  a  very  different 
place" 

She  turned  and  vanished  among  the  crowd.  Lance- 
lot almost  ran  out  into  the  night, — into  a  triad  of 
fights,  two  dmnken  men,  two  jealous  wives,  and  a 
brute  who  struck  a  poor,  thin,  worn-out  woman,  for 
trying  to  coax  him  home.  Lancelot  nished  up  to 
interfere,  but  a  man  seized  his  uplifted  arm. 

"  Hell  only  beat  her  all  the  more  when  he  getteth 
home." 

"  She  has  stood  that  every  Sat  unlay  night  for  the 
last  seven  years,  to  my  knowledge,"  said  Tregarva; 
"and  worse,  too,  at  times." 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  251 

"  Good  God !  is  there  no  escape  for  her  from  her 
tyrant?" 

"  No,  sir.  It's  only  you  gentlefolks  who  can  afford 
such  luxuries ;  your  poor  man  may  be  tied  to  a  harlot, 
or  your  poor  woman  to  a  ruffian,  but  once  done,  done 
for  ever." 

"Well,"  thought  Lancelot,  "we  English  have  a 
characteristic  way  of  proving  the  holiness  of  the 
marriage  tie.  The  angel  of  Justice  and  Pity  cannot 
sever  it,  only  the  stronger  demon  of  Money." 

Their  way  home  lay  over  Ashy  Down,  a  lofty 
chalk  promontory,  round  whose  foot  the  river  made  a 
sudden  bend.  As  they  paced  along  over  the  dreary 
hedgeless  stubbles,  they  both  started,  as  a  ghostly 
"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  rang  through  the  air  over  their 
heads,  and  was  answered  by  a  like  cry,  faint  and  dis- 
tant, across  the  wolds. 

"That's  those  stone-curlews — at  least,  so  I  hope," 
said  Tregarva.  "  He'll  be  round  again  in  a  minute." 

And  again,  right  between  them  and  the  clear,  cold 
moon,  "Ha!  ha!  ha!"  resounded  over  their  heads. 
They  gazed  up  into  the  cloudless  star-bespangled  sky, 
but  there  was  no  sign,  of  living  thing. 

"  It's  an  old  sign  to  me,"  quoth  Tregarva ;  "  God 
grant  that  I  may  remember  it  in  this  black  day  of 
mine." 

"How  so!"  asked  Lancelot;  "I  should  not  have 
fancied  you  a  superstitious  man." 

"Names  go  for  nothing,  sir,  and  what  my  fore- 
fathers believed  in  I  am  not  going  to  be  conceited 


252  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

enough  to  disbelieve  in  a  hurry.  But  if  you  heard 
my  story  you  would  think  I  had  reason  enough  to 
remember  that  devil's  laugh  up  there." 

"Let  me  hear  it  then." 

"  Well,  sir,  it  may  be  a  long  story  to  you,  but  it 
was  a  short  one  to  me,  for  it  was  the  making  of  me, 
out  of  hand,  there  and  then,  blessed  be  God  !  But  if 
you  will  have  it — 

"  And  I  will  have  it,  friend  Tregarva,"  quoth  Lance- 
lot, lighting  his  cigar. 

"  I  was  about  sixteen  years  old,  just  after  I  came 
home  from  the  Brazils — 

"  What !  have  you  been  in  the  Brazils  ?" 

"  Indeed  and  I  have,  sir,  for  three  years ;  and  one 
thing  I  learnt  there,  at  least,  that's  worth  going  for." 

"What's  that?" 

"  What  the  Garden  of  Eden  must  have  been  like. 
But  those  Brazils,  under  God,  were  the  cause  of  my 
being  here ;  for  my  father,  who  was  a  mine-captain, 
lost  all  his  money  there,  by  no  man's  fault  but  his 
own,  and  not  his  either,  the  world  would  say,  and 
when  we  came  back  to  Cornwall  he  could  not  stand 
the  bal  work,  nor  I  neither.  Out  of  that  burning 
sun,  sir,  to  come  homo  here,  and  work  in  the  levels, 
up  to  our  knees  in  warm  water,  with  the  thermometer 
at  85°,  and  then  up  a  thousand  feet  of  ladder  to  grass, 
reeking  wet  with  heat,  and  find  the  easterly  sleet 
driving  across  those  oj>en  furze-crofts — he  couldn't 
stand  it,  sir — few  stand  it  long,  even  of  those  who 
stay  in  Cornwall.  We  miners  have  a  short  lease  of 


THE  VILLA.GE  REVEL.  253 

life ;  consumption  and  strains  break  us  down  before 
we're  fifty." 

"  But  how  came  you  here  ?" 

"  The  doctor  told  my  father,  and  me  too,  sir,  that 
we  must  give  up  mining,  or  die  of  decline :  so  he 
came  up  here,  to  a  sister  of  his  that  was  married  to 
the  squire's  gardener,  and  here  he  died,  and  the 
squire,  God  bless  him  and  forgive  him,  took  a  fancy 
to  me,  and  made  me  underkeeper.  And  I  loved  the 
life,  for  it  took  me  among  the  woods  and  the  rivers, 
where  I  could  think  of  the  Brazils,  and  fancy  myself 
back  again.  But  mustn't  talk  of  that — where  God 
wills  is  all  right.  And  it  is  a  fine  life  for  reading  and 
thinking,  a  gamekeeper's,  for  it's  an  idle  life  at  best. 
Now  that's  over,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh,  "and  the 
Lord  has  fulfilled  His  words  to  me,  that  He  spoke 
the  first  night  that  ever  I  heard  a  stone-plover  cry." 

"What  on  earth  can  you  mean1?"  asked  Lancelot, 
deeply  interested. 

"  Why,  sir,  it  was  a  wild,  whirling  grey  night,  with 
the  air  full  of  sleet  and  rain,  and  my  father  sent  me 
over  to  Redruth  town  to  bring  home  some  trade  or 
other.  And  as  I  came  back  I  got  blinded  with  the 
sleet,  and  I  lost  my  way  across  the  moors.  You 
know  those  Cornish  furze-moors,  sir?" 

"No." 

"  Well,  then,  they  are  burrowed  like  a  rabbit- 
warren  with  old  mine-shafts.  You  can't  go  in  some 
places  ten  yards  without  finding  great,  ghastly  black 
holes,  covered  in  with  furze,  and  weeds,  and  bits  of 


254  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

rotting  timber ;  and  when  I  was  a  boy  I  couldn't  keep 
from  them.  Something  seemed  to  draw  me  to  go 
and  peep  down,  and  drop  pebbles  in,  to  hear  them 
rattle  against  the  sides,  fathoms  below,  till  they 
plumped  into  the  ugly  black  still  water  at  the  bottom. 
And  I  used  to  be  always  after  them  in  my  dreams, 
when  I  was  young,  falling  down  them,  down,  down, 
all  night  long,  till  I  woke  screaming ;  for  I  fancied 
they  were  hell's  mouth,  every  one  of  them.  And  it 
stands  to  reason,  sir ;  we  miners  hold  that  the  lake 
of  fire  can't  be  far  below.  For  we  find  it  grow 
warmer,  and  warmer,  and  warmer,  the  farther  we 
sink  a  shaft ;  and  the  learned  gentlemen  have  proved, 
sir,  that  it's  not  the  blasting  powder,  nor  the  men's 
breaths,  that  heat  the  mine." 
Lancelot  could  but  listen. 

"Well,  sir,  I  got  into  a  great  furze -croft,  full  of 
deads  (those  are  the  earth-heaps  they  throw  out  of 
the  shafts),  where  no  man  in  his  senses  dare  go  for- 
ward or  back  in  the  dark,  for  fear  of  the  shafts  ;  and 
the  wind  and  the  snow  were  so  sharp,  they  made  me 
quite  stupid  and  sleepy  ;  and  I  knew  if  I  stayed  there 
I  should  be  frozen  to  death,  and  if  I  went  on,  there 
were  the  shafts  ready  to  swallow  me  up :  and  what 
with  fear  and  the  howling  and  raging  of  the  wind,  I 
was  like  a  mazed  boy,  sir.  And  I  knelt  down  and 
tried  to  pray ;  and  then,  in  one  moment,  all  the  evil 
things  I'd  ever  done,  and  the  bad  words  and  thoughts 
that  ever  crossed  me,  rose  up  together  as  clear  as  one 
page  of  a  print-li«n.k  :  and  1  knew  that  if  I  <lir<l  that 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  255 

minute  I  should  go  to  hell.  And  then  I  saw  through 
the  ground  all  the  water  in  the  shafts  glaring  like 
blood,  and  all  the  sides  of  the  shafts  fierce  red-hot,  as 
if  hell  was  coming  up.  And  I  heard  the  knockers 
knocking,  or  thought  I  heard  them,  as  plain  as  I  hear 
that  grasshopper  in  the  hedge  now." 

"  What  are  the  knockers  ?" 

"  They  are  the  ghosts,  the  miners  hold,  of  the  old 
Jews,  sir,  that  crucified  our  Lord,  and  were  sent  for 
slaves  by  the  Koman  emperors  to  work  the  mines, 
and  we  find  their  old  smelting-houses,  which  we  call 
Jews'  houses,  and  their  blocks  of  tin,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  great  bogs,  which  we  call  Jews'  tin;  and  there's 
a  town  among  us,  too,  which  we  call  Market-Jew — 
but  the  old  name  was  Marazion ;  that  means  the 
Bitterness  of  Zion,  they  tell  me.  Isn't  it  so,  sir?" 

"I  believe  it  is,"  said  Lancelot,  utterly  puzzled  in 
this  new  field  of  romance. 

"And  bitter  work  it  was  for  them,  no  doubt,  poor 
souls !  We  used  to  break  into  the  old  shafts  and 
adits  which  they  had  made,  and  find  old  stags'-horn 
pickaxes,  that  crumbled  to  pieces  when  we  brought 
them  to  grass ;  and  they  say,  that  if  a  man  will  listen, 
sir,  of  a  still  night,  about  those  old  shafts,  he  may 
hear  the  ghosts  of  them  at  working,  knocking,  and 
picking,  as  clear  as  if  there  was  a  man  at  work  in  the 
next  level.  It  may  be  all  an  old  fancy.  I  suppose 
it  is.  But  I  believed  it  when  I  was  a  boy ;  and  it 
helped  the  work  in  me  that  night.  But  I'll  go  on 
with  my  story." 


256  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

"Go  on  with  what  you  like,"  said  Lancelot 
"Well,  sir,  I  was  down  on  my  knees  among  the 
furze -hushes,  and  I  tried  to  pray  ;  but  I  was  too 
frightened,  for  I  felt  the  beast  I  had  been,  sir ;  and  I 
expected  the  ground  to  open  and  let  me  down  every 
moment ;  and  then  there  came  by  over  my  head  a 
rushing,  and  a  cry.  'Ha!  ha!  ha!  Paul!'  it  said; 
and  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  devils  and  witches  were 
out  on  the  wind,  a-laughing  at  my  misery.  '  Oh,  I'll 
mend — I'll  repent,'  I  said,  'indeed  I  will :'  and  again 
it  came  back,  — '  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  Paul ! '  it  said.  I 
knew  afterwards  that  it  was  a  bird ;  but  the  Lord 
sent  it  to  me  for  a  messenger,  no  less,  that  night 
And  I  shook  like  a  reed  in  the  water ;  and  then,  all 
at  once  a  thought  struck  me.  '  Why  should  I  be  a 
coward  1  Why  should  I  be  afraid  of  shafts,  or  devils, 
or  hell,  or  anything  else  ?  If  I  am  a  miserable  sinner, 
there's  One  died  for  me — I  owe  him  love,  not  fear  at 
all.  I'll  not  be  frightened  into  doing  right — that's  a 
rascally  reason  for  repentance.'  And  so  it  was,  sir, 
that  I  rose  up  like  a  man,  and  said  to  the  Lord  Jesus, 
right  out  into  the  black,  dumb  air, — '  If  you'll  be  on 
my  side  this  night,  good  Lord,  that  died  for  me,  I'll 
be  on  your  side  for  ever,  villain  as  I  am,  if  I'm  worth 
making  any  use  of.'  And  there  and  then,  sir,  I  saw  a 
light  come  over  the  bushes,  brighter,  and  brighter, 
up  to  me ;  and  there  rose  up  a  voice  within  me,  and 
spoke  to  me,  quite  soft  and  sweet, — '  Fear  not,  Paul, 
for  I  will  send  thee  far  hence  unto  the  Gentiles.' 
And  what  more  happened  I  can't  tell,  for  when  1 


THE  VILLAGE  EEVEL.  257 

woke  I  was  safe  at  home.  My  father  and  his  folk 
had  been  out  with  lanterns  after  me ;  and  there  they 
found  me,  sure  enough,  in  a  dead  faint  on  the  ground. 
But  this  I  know,  sir,  that  those  words  have  never  left 
my  mind  since  for  a  day  together ;  and  I  know  that 
they  will  be  fulfilled  in  me  this  tide,  or  never." 

Lancelot  was  silent  a  few  minutes. 

"I  suppose,  Tregarva,  that  you  would  call  this 
your  conversion  ?" 

"I  should  call  it  one,  sir,  because  it  was  one." 

"  Tell  me  now,  honestly,  did  any  real,  practical 
change  in  your  behaviour  take  place  after  that 
night  V 

"  As  much,  sir,  as  if  you  put  a  soul  into  a  hog,  and 
told  him  that  he  was  a  gentleman's  son ;  and,  if  every 
time  he  remembered  that,  he  got  spirit  enough  to  con- 
quer his  hoggishness,  and  behave  like  a  man,  till  the 
hoggishness  died  out  of  him,  and  the  manliness  grew 
up  and  bore  fruit  in  him,  more  and  more  each  day." 

Lancelot  half  understood  him,  and  sighed. 

A  long  silence  followed,  as  they  paced  on  past 
lonely  farmyards,  from  which  the  rich  manure-water 
was  draining  across  the  road  in  foul  black  streams, 
festering  and  steaming  in  the  chill  night  air.  Lance- 
lot sighed  as  he  saw  the  fruitful  materials  of  food 
running  to  waste,  and  thought  of  the  "  over-popula- 
tion "  cry ;  and  then  he  looked  across  to  the  miles  of 
brown  moorland  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley, 
that  lay  idle  and  dreary  under  the  autumn  moon, 
except  where  here  and  there  a  squatter's  cottage  and 


258  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

rood  of  fruitful  garden  gave  the  lie  to  the  laziness 
and  ignorance  of  man,  who  pretends  that  it  is  not 
worth  his  while  to  cultivate  the  soil  which  God  has 
given  him.  "Good  heavens  !"  he  thought,  "had  our 
forefathers  had  no  more  enterprise  than  modern  land- 
lords, where  should  we  all  have  been  at  this  moment? 
Everywhere  waste  1  Waste  of  manure,  waste  of  land, 
waste  of  muscle,  waste  of  brain,  waste  of  population 
— and  we  call  ourselves  the  workshop  of  the  world  !" 

As  they  passed  through  the  miserable  hamlet-street 
of  Ashy,  they  saw  a  light  burning  in  window.  At 
the  door  below,  a  haggard  woman  was  looking  anxi- 
ously down  the  village. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mistress  Cooper?"  asked 
Tregarva. 

"  Here's  Mrs.  Grane's  poor  girl  lying  sick  of  the 
fever — the  Lord  help  her !  and  the  boy  died  of  it  last 
week  We  sent  for  the  doctor  this  afternoon,  and 
he's  busy  with  a  poor  soul  that's  in  her  trouble ;  and 
now  we've  sent  down  to  the  squire's,  and  the  young 
ladies,  God  bless  them !  sent  answer  they'd  come 
themselves  straightway." 

"No  wonder  you  have  typhus  here,"  said  Lancelot, 
"  with  this  filthy  open  drain  running  right  before  the 
door.  Why  can't  you  clean  it  out?" 

"Why,  what  harm  does  that  do?"  answered  the 
woman,  peevishly.  "Beside,  here's  my  master  gets 
up  to  his  work  by  five  in  the  morning,  and  not  back 
till  seven  at  night,  and  by  then  he  ain't  in  no  humour 
to  clean  out  gutters.  And  where's  the  water  to 


THE  VILLAGE  EEVEL.  259 

come  from  to  keep  a  place  clean?  It  costs  many  a  one 
of  us  here  a  shilling  a  week  the  summer  through  to 
pay  fetching  water  up  the  hill  We've  work  enough 
to  fill  our  kettles.  The  muck  must  just  lie  in  the 
road,  smell  or  none,  till  the  rain  carries  it  away." 

Lancelot  sighed  again. 

"  It  would  be  a  good  thing  for  Ashy,  Tregarva,  if 
the  weir-pool  did,  some  fine  morning,  run  up  to  Ashy 
Down,  as  poor  Harry  Verney  said  on  his  death-bed." 

"  There  won't  be  much  of  Ashy  left  by  that  time, 
sir,  if  the  landlords  go  on  pulling  down  cottages  at 
their  present  rate ;  driving  the  people  into  the  towns, 
to  herd  together  there  like  hogs,  and  walk  out  to 
their  work  four  or  five  miles  every  morning." 

"Why,"  said  Lancelot,  "wherever  one  goes  one 
sees  commodious  new  cottages  springing  up." 

"Wherever  you  go,  sir;  but  what  of  wherever  you 
don't  go1?  Along  the  roadsides,  and  round  the  gentle- 
men's parks,  where  the  cottages  are  in  sight,  it's  all 
very  smart ;  but  just  go  into  the  outlying  hamlets — 
a  whited  sepulchre,  sir,  is  many  a  great  estate ;  out- 
wardly swept  and  garnished,  and  inwardly  full  of  all 
uncleanliness,  and  dead  men's  bones." 

At  this  moment  two  cloaked  and  veiled  figures 
came  up  to  the  door,  followed  by  a  servant.  There 
was  no  mistaking  those  delicate  footsteps,  and  the 
two  young  men  drew  back  with  fluttering  hearts,  and 
breathed  out  silent  blessings  on  the  ministering  angels, 
as  they  entered  the  crazy  and  reeking  house. 

"  I'm  thinking,  sir,"  said  Tregarva,  as  they  walked 


260  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL. 

slowly  and  reluctantly  away,  "  that  it  is  hard  of  the 
gentlemen  to  leave  all  God's  work  to  the  ladies,  as 
nine-tenths  of  them  do." 

"And  I  am  thinking,  Tregarva,  that  both  for  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  prevention  is  better  than  cure." 

"There's  a  great  change  come  over  Miss  Argemone, 
sir.  She  used  not  to  be  so  ready  to  start  out  at  mid 
night  to  visit  dying  folk.  A  blessed  change ! " 

Lancelot  thought  so  too,  and  he  thought  that  he 
knew  the  cause  of  it 

Argemone's  appearance,  and  their  late  conversa- 
tion, had  started  a  new  covey  of  strange  fancies. 
Lancelot  followed  them  over  hill  and  dale,  glad  to 
escape  a  moment  from  the  mournful  lessons  of  that 
evening;  but  even  over  them  there  was  a  cloud  of 
sadness.  Harry  Verney's  last  words,  and  Argemone's 
accidental  whisper  about  "  a  curse  upon  the  Laving- 
tons,"  rose  to  his  mind.  He  longed  to  ask  Tregarva, 
but  he  was  afraid — not  of  the  man,  for  there  was  a 
delicacy  in  his  truthfulness  which  encouraged  the 
most  utter  confidence ;  but  of  the  subject  itself ;  but 
curiosity  conquered. 

"What  did  Old  Harry  mean  about  the  Nun-pool?" 
he  said  at  last  "  Every  one  seemed  to  understand 
him." 

"  Ah,  sir,  he  oughtn't  to  have  talked  of  it !  But 
dying  men,  at  times,  see  over  the  dark  water  into 
deep  things  —  deeper  than  they  think  themselves. 
Perhaps  there's  one  speaks  through  them.  I5nt  I 
thought  every  one  knew  the  story." 


THE  VILLAGE  KEVEL.  261 

"I  do  not,  at  least." 

"  Perhaps  it's  so  much  the  better,  sir." 

"  Why  ?  I  must  insist  on  knowing.  It  is  neces- 
sary— proper,  that  is — that  I  should  hear  everything 
that  concerns — 

"I  understand,  sir;  so  it  is;  and  I'll  tell  you.  The 
story  goes,  that  in  the  old  Popish  times,  when  the 
nuns  held  Whitford  Priors,  the  first  Mr.  Lavington 
that  ever  was  came  from'  the  king  with  a  warrant  to 
turn  them  all  out,  poor  souls,  and  take  the  lands  for 
his  own.  And  they  say  the  head  lady  of  them — 
prioress,  or  abbess,  as  they  called  her — withstood  him, 
and  cursed  him,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  for  a  hypo- 
crite who  robbed  harmless  women  under  the  cloak  of 
punishing  them  for  sins  they'd  never  committed  (for 
they  say,  sir,  he  went  up  to  court,  and  slandered  the 
nuns  there  for  drunkards  and  worse).  And  she  told 
him,  '  That  the  curse  of  the  nuns  of  Whitford  should 
be  on  him  and  his,  till  they  helped  the  poor  in  the 
spirit  of  the  nuns  of  Whitford,  and  the  Nun-pool  ran  up 
to  Ashy  Down.'  " 

"  That  time  is  not  come  yet,"  said  Lancelot. 

"  But  the  worst  is  to  come,  sir.  For  he  or  his,  sir, 
that  night,  said  or  did  something  to  the  lady,  that 
was  more  than  woman's  heart  could  bear :  and  the 
next  morning  she  was  found  dead  and  cold,  drowned 
in  that  weir-pool.  And  there  the  gentleman's  eldest 
son  was  drowned,  and  more  than  one  Lavington  be- 
side. Miss  Argemone's  only  brother,  that  was  the  heir, 
was  drowned  there  too,  when  he  was  a  little  one." 


262  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL, 

"  I  never  heard  that  she  had  a  brother." 
"No,  sir,  no  one  talks  of  it  There  are  many 
things  happen  in  the  great  house  that  you  must  go  to 
the  little  house  to  hear  of.  But  the  country-folk  be- 
lieve, sir,  that  the  nun's  curse  holds  true ;  and  they 
say,  that  Whitford  folks  have  been  getting  poorer  and 
wickeder  ever  since  that  time,  and  will,  till  the  Nun- 
pool  runs  up  to  Ashy,  and  the  Lavingtons'  name  goes 
out  of  Whitford  Priors." 

Lancelot  said  nothing.  A  presentiment  of  evil 
hung  over  him.  He  was  utterly  down-hearted  about 
Tregarva,  about  Argemone,  about  the  poor.  The 
truth  was,  he  could  not  shake  off  the  impression  of 
the  scene  he  had  left,  utterly  disappointed  and  dis- 
gusted with  the  "revel"  He  had  expected,  as  I  said 
before,  at  least  to  hear  something  of  pastoral  senti- 
ment, and  of  genial  frolicsome  humour ;  to  see  some 
innocent,  simple  enjoyment:  but  instead,  what  had 
he  seen  but  vanity,  jealousy,  hoggish  sensuality,  dull 
vacuity?  drudges  struggling  for  one  night  to  forget 
their  drudgery.  And  yet  withal,  those  songs,  and  the 
effect  which  they  produced,  showed  that  in  these  poor 
creatures,  too,  lay  the  germs  of  pathos,  taste,  melody, 
soft-  and  noble  affections.  "  What  right  have  we," 
thought  he,  "to  hinder  their  development?  Art, 
poetry,  music,  science, — ay,  even  those  athletic  and 
graceful  exercises  on  which  we  all  pride  ourselves, 
which  we  consider  necessary  to  soften  and  refine  our- 
selves, what  God  has  given  us  a  monopoly  of  them  1 
— what  is  good  for  the  rich  man  is  good  for  the  poor. 


THE  VILLAGE  REVEL.  263 

0  ver- education  ?  And  what  of  that?  What  if  the 
poor  be  raised  above  "their  station"?  What  right 
have  we  to  keep  them  down?  How  long  have 
they  been  our  born  thralls  in  soul,  as  well  as  in  body? 
What  right  have  we  to  say  that  they  shall  know  no 
higher  recreation  than  the  hogs,  because,  forsooth,  if 
we  raised  them,  they  might  refuse  to  work — for  us  ? 
Are  we  to  fix  how  far  their  minds  may  be  developed  ? 
Has  not  God  fixed  it  for  us,  when  He  gave  them  the 
same  passions,  talents,  tastes,  as  our  own  ?" 

Tregarva's  meditations  must  have  been  running  in 
a  very  different  channel,  for  he  suddenly  burst  out, 
after  a  long  silence — 

"  It's  a  pity  these  fairs  can't  be  put  down.  They 
do  a  lot  of  harm ;  ruin  all  the  young  girls  round,  the 
Dissenters'  children  especially,  for  they  run  utterly 
wild ;  their  parents  have  no  hold  on  them  at  all." 

"They  tell  them  that  they  are  children  of  the 
devil,"  said  Lancelot.  "  What  wonder  if  the  children 
take  them  at  their  word,  and  act  accordingly?" 

"The  parson  here,  sir,  who  is  a  God-fearing  man 
enough,  tried  hard  to  put  down  this  one,  but  the  inn- 
keepers were  too  strong  for  him." 

"To  take  away  their  only  amusement,  in  short. 
He  had  much  better  have  set  to  work  to  amuse  them 
himself." 

"  His  business  is  to  save  souls,  sir,  and  not  to  amuse 
them.  I  don't  see,  sir,  what  Christian  people  want 
with  such  vanities." 

Lancelot  did  not  argue  the  point,  for  he  knew  the 


264  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL 

prejudices  of  Dissenters  on  the  subject;  but  it  did 
strike  him  that  if  Tregarva's  brain  had  been  a  little 
less  preponderant,  he,  too,  might  have  found  the  need 
of  some  recreation  besides  books  and  thought 

By  this  time  they  were  at  Lancelot's  door.  He 
bid  the  keeper  a  hearty  good-night,  made  him  promise 
to  see  him  next  day,  and  went  to  bed  and  slept  till 
nearly  noon. 

When  he  walked  into  his  breakfast-room,  he  found 
a  note  on  the  table  in  his  uncle's  handwriting.  The 
vicar's  servant  had  left  it  an  hour  before.  He  opened 
it  listlessly,  rang  the  bell  furiously,  ordered  out  his 
best  horse,  and,  huddling  on  his  clothes,  galloped  to 
the  nearest  station,  caught  the  train,  and  arrived  at 
his  uncle's  bank — it  had  stopped  payment  two  hours 
before. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  1 

YES  !  the  bank  had  stopped.  The  ancient  firm  of 
Smith,  Brown,  Jones,  Eobinson,  and  Co.,  which  had 
been  for  some  years  past  expanding  from  a  solid 
golden  organism  into  a  cobweb-tissue  and  huge  balloon 
of  threadbare  paper,  had  at  last  worn  through  and 
collapsed,  dropping  its  car  and  human  contents  miser- 
ably into  the  Thames  mud.  Why  detail  the  pitiable 
post-mortem  examination  resulting  1  Lancelot  sickened 
over  it  for  many  a  long  day ;  not,  indeed,  mourning 
at  his  private  losses,  but  at  the  thorough  hollowness 
of  the  system  which  it  exposed,  about  which  he  spoke 
his  mind  pretty  freely  to  his  uncle,  who  bore  it  good- 
humouredly  enough.  Indeed,  the  discussions  to  which 
it  gave  rise  rather  comforted  the  good  man,  by  turning 
his  thought  from  his  own  losses  to  general  principles. 
"  I  have  ruined  you,  my  poor  boy,"  he  used  to  say ; 
"  so  you  may  us  well  take  your  money's  worth  out  of 
me  in  bullying."  Nothing,  indeed,  could  surpass  his 
honest  and  manly  sorrow  for  having  been  the  cause 
of  Lancelot's  beggary ;  but  as  for  persuading  him  that 
his  system  was  wrong,  it  was  quite  impossible.  Not 


266  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ? 

that  Lancelot  was  hard  upon  him ;  on  the  contrary, 
ho  assured  him,  repeatedly,  of  his  conviction,  that  the 
precepts  of  the  Bible  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  laws 
of  commerce ;  that  though  the  Jews  were  forbidden 
to  take  interest  of  Jews,  Christians  had  a  perfect  right 
to  be  as  hard  as  they  liked  on  "  brother  "  Christians ; 
that  there  could  not  be  the  least  harm  in  share-jobbing, 
for  though  it  did,  to  be  sure,  add  nothing  to  the  wealth 
of  the  community — only  conjure  money  out  of  your 
neighbour's  pocket  into  your  own — yet  was  not  that 
all  fair  in  trade  1  If  a  man  did  not  know  the  real 
value  of  the  shares  he  sold  you,  you  were  not  bound 
to  tell  him.  Again,  Lancelot  quite  agreed  with  his 
uncle,  that  though  covetousness  might  be  idolatry,  yet 
money-making  could  not  be  called  covetousness ;  and 
that,  on  the  whole,  though  making  haste  to  be  rich 
was  denounced  as  a  dangerous  and  ruinous  temptation 
in  St.  Paul's  times,  that  was  not  the  slightest  reason 
why  it  should  be  so  now.  All  these  concessions  were 
made  with  a  freedom  which  caused  the  good  banker  to 
suspect  at  times  that  his  shrewd  nephew  was  laughing 
at  him  in  his  sleeve,  but  he  could  not  but  subscribe 
to  them  for  the  sake  of  consistency;  though  as  a 
staunch  Protestant,  it  puzzled  him  a  little  at  times  to 
find  it  necessary  to  justify  himself  by  getting  his 
"infidel"  nephew  to  explain  away  so  much  of  the 
Bible  for  him.  But  men  are  accustomed  to  do  that 
now-a-days,  and  so  was  he. 

Once  only  did  Lancelot  break  out  with  his  real 
sentiments  when  the  banker  was  planning  how  to  re- 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ?  267 

establish  his  credit ;  to  set  to  work,  in  fact,  to  blow 
over  again  the  same  bubble  which  had  already  burst 
under  him. 

"  If  I  were  a  Christian,"  said  Lancelot,  "  like  you, 
I  would  call  this  credit  system  of  yours  the  devil's 
selfish  counterfeit  of  God's  order  of  mutual  love  and 
trust;  the  child  of  that  miserable  dream,  which,  as 
Dr.  Chalmers  well  said,  expects  universal  selfishness 
to  do  the  work  of  universal  love.  Look  at  your 
credit  system,  how — not  in  its  abuse,  but  in  its  very 
essence — it  carries  the  seeds  of  self-destruction.  In 
the  first  place,  a  man's  credit  depends,  not  upon  his 
real  worth  and  property,  but  upon  his  reputation  for 
property ;  daily  and  hourly  he  is  tempted,  he  is  forced, 
to  puff  himself,  to  pretend  to  be  richer  than  he  is." 

The  banker  sighed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  We  all  do  it,  my  dear  boy." 

"  I  know  it.  You  must  do  it,  or  be  more  than 
human.  There  is  lie  the  first,  and  look  at  lie  the 
second.  This  credit  system  is  founded  on  the  univer- 
sal faith  and  honour  of  men  towards  men.  But  do 
you  think  faith  and  honour  can  be  the  children  of 
selfishness1?  Men  must  be  chivalrous  and  disinterested 
to  be  honourable.  And  you  expect  them  all  to  join 
in  universal  faith — each  for  his  own  selfish  interest  1 
You  forget  that  if  that  is  the  prime  motive,  men  will 
be  honourable  only  as  long  as  it  suits  that  same  self- 
interest." 

The  banker  shrugged  his  shoulders  again. 

"Yes,  my  dear  uncle,"  said   Lancelot,   "you  all 


268  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DOXE  ? 

forget  it,  though  you  suffer  for  it  daily  and  hourly ; 
though  the  honourable  men  among  you  complain  of 
the  stain  which  has  fallen  on  the  old  chivalrous  good 
faith  of  English  commerce,  and  say  that  now,  abroad 
as  well  as  at  home,  an  Englishman's  word  is  no  longer 
worth  other  men's  bonds.  You  see  the  evil,  and  you 
deplore  it  in  disgust.  Ask  yourself  honestly,  how 
can  you  battle  against  it,  while  you  allow  in  practice, 
and  in  theory  too,  except  in  church  on  Sundays,  the 
very  falsehood  from  which  it  all  springs  1 — that  a  man 
is  bound  to  get  wealth,  not  for  his  country,  but  for 
himself ;  that,  in  short,  not  patriotism,  but  selfishness, 
is  the  bond  of  all  society.  Selfishness  can  collect,  not 
unite,  a  herd  of  cowardly  wild  cattle,  that  they  may 
feed  together,  breed  together,  keep  off  the  wolf  and 
bear  together.  But  when  one  of  your  wild  cattle 
falls  sick,  what  becomes  of  the  corporate' feelings  of 
the  herd  then?  For  one  man  of  your  class  who  is 
nobly  helped  by  his  fellows,  are  not  the  thousand  left 
behind  to  perish?  Your  Bible  talks  of  society,  not 
as  a  herd,  but  as  a  living  tree,  an  organic  individual 
body,  a  holy  brotherhood,  and  kingdom  of  God.  And 
here  is  an  idol  which  you  have  set  up  instead  of  it ! " 

But  the  banker  was  deaf  to  all  arguments.  No 
doubt  he  had  plenty,  for  he  was  himself  a  just  and 
generons,  ay,  and  a  God-fearing  man  in  his  way,  only 
he  regarded  Lancelot's  young  fancies  as  too  visionary 
to  deserve  an  answer ;  which  they  most  probably  are  ; 
else,  having  been  broached  as  often  as  they  have 
been,  they  would  surely,  ere  now,  have  provoked  the 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ?  269 

complete  refutation  which  can,  no  doubt,  be  given  to 
them  by  hundreds  of  learned  votaries  of  so-called 
commerce.  And  here  I  beg  my  readers  to  recollect 
that  I  am  in  no  way  answerable  for  the  speculations 
either  of  Lancelot  or  any  of  his  acquaintances ;  and 
that  these  papers  have  been,  from  beginning  to  end, 
as  in  name,  so  in  nature,  Yeast — an  honest  sample  of 
the  questions  which,  good  or  bad,  are  fermenting  in 
the  minds  of  the  young  of  this  day,  and  are  rapidly 
leavening  the  minds  of  the  rising  generation.  No 
doubt  they  are  all  as  full  of  fallacies  as  possible,  but 
as  long  as  the  saying  of  the  German  sage  stands  true, 
that  "the  destiny  of  any  nation,  at  any  given  moment, 
depends  on  the  opinions  of  its  young  men  under  five- 
and-twenty,"  so  long  it  must  be  worth  while  for  those 
who  wish  to  preserve  the  present  order  of  society  to 
justify  its  acknowledged  evils  somewhat,  not  only  to 
the  few  young  men  who  are  interested  in  preserving 
them,  but  also  to  the  many  who  are  not. 

Though,  therefore,  I  am  neither  Plymouth  Brother 
nor  Communist,  and  as  thoroughly  convinced  as  the 
newspapers  can  make  me,  that  to  assert  the  duties  of 
property  is  only  to  plot  its  destruction,  and  that  a 
community  of  goods  must  needs  imply  a  community 
of  wives  (as  every  one  knows  was  the  case  with  the 
apostolic  Christians),  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  narrat- 
ing Lancelot's  fanatical  conduct,  without  execratory 
comment,  certain  that  he  will  still  receive  his  just 
reward  of  condemnation ;  and  that,  if  I  find  facts,  a 
sensible  public  will  find  abhorrence  for  them.  His 


270  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ? 

behaviour  was,  indeed,  most  singular;  he  absolutely 
refused  a  good  commercial  situation  which  his  uncle 
procured  him.  He  did  not  believe  in  being  "  cured 
by  a  hair  of  the  dog  that  bit  him ; "  and  he  refused, 
also,  the  really  generous  offers  of  the  creditors,  to 
allow  him  a  sufficient  maintenance. 

"No,"  he  said,  "no  more  pay  without  work  for 
me.  I  will  earn  my  bread  or  starve.  It  seems  God's 
will  to  teach  me  what  poverty  is — I  will  see  that  His 
intention  is  not  left  half  fulfilled.  I  have  sinned,  and 
only  in  the  stern  delight  of  a  just  penance  can  I  gain 
self -respect" 

"But,  my  dear  madman,"  said  his  uncle,  "you  are 
just  the  innocent  one  among  us  all  You,  at  least, 
were  only  a  sleeping  partner." 

"  And  therein  lies  my  sin ;  I  took  money  which  I 
never  earned,  and  cared  as  little  how  it  was  gained  as 
how  I  spent  it  Henceforth  I  shall  touch  no  farthing 
which  is  the  fruit  of  a  system  which  I  cannot  approve. 
I  accuse  no  one.  Actions  may  vary  in  rightfulness, 
according  to  the  age  and  the  person.  But  what  may 
be  right  for  you,  because  you  think  it  right,  is  surely 
wrong  for  me  because  I  think  it  wrong." 

So,  with  grim  determination,  he  sent  to  the  hammer 
every  article  he  possessed,  till  he  had  literally  nothing 
left  but  the  clothes  in  which  he  stood.  "  He  could 
not  rest,"  he  said,  "till  he  had  pulled  out  all  his 
borrowed  peacock's  feathers.  When  they  were  gone 
he  should  be  able  to  see,  at  last,  whether  he  was  jack- 
daw or  eagle."  And  wonder  not,  reader,  at  this  same 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ?  271 

strength  of  will.  The  very  genius,  which  too  often 
makes  its  possessor  self-indulgent  in  common  matters, 
from  the  intense  capability  of  enjoyment  which  it 
brings,  may  also,  when  once  his  whole  being  is  stirred 
into  motion  by  some  great  object,  transform  him  into 
a  hero. 

And  he  carried  a  letter,  too,  in  his  bosom,  night 
and  day,  which  routed  all  coward  fears  and  sad  fore- 
bodings as  soon  as  they  arose,  and  converted  the 
lonely  and  squalid  lodging  to  which  he  had  retired, 
into  a  fairy  palace  peopled  with  bright  phantoms  of 
future  bliss.  I  need  not  say  from  whom  it  came. 

"Beloved  !"  (it  ran)  " Darling  !  you  need  not  pain 
yourself  to  tell  me  anything.  I  know  all;  and  I 
know,  too  (do  not  ask  me  how),  your  noble  determina- 
tion to  drink  the  wholesome  cup  of  poverty  to  the 
very  dregs. 

"  Oh  that  I  were  with  you  !  Oh  that  I  could  give 
you  my  fortune  !  but  that  is  not  yet,  alas  !  in  my  own 
power.  No  !  rather  would  I  share  that  poverty  with 
you,  and  strengthen  you  in  your  purpose.  And  yet, 
I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  you,  lonely — perhaps 
miserable.  But,  courage !  though  you  have  lost  all, 
you  have  found  me ;  and  now  you  are  knitting  me  to 
you  for  ever — justifying  my  own  love  to  me  by  your 
nobleness ;  and  am  I  not  worth  all  the  world  to  you  ? 
I  dare  say  this  to  you ;  you  will  not  think  me  con- 
ceited. Can  we  misunderstand  each  other's  hearts? 
And  all  this  while  you  are  alone !  Oh !  I  have 
mourned  for  you  !  Since  I  heard  of  your  misfortune 


272  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ? 

I  have  not  tasted  pleasure.  The  light  of  heaven  has 
been  black  to  me,  and  I  have  lived  only  upon  love. 
I  will  not  taste  comfort  while  you  are  wretched. 
Would  that  I  could  be  poor  like  you !  Every  night 
upon  the  bare  floor  I  lie  down  to  sleep,  and  fancy  you 
in  your  little  chamber,  and  nestle  to  you,  and  cover 
that  dear  face  with  kisses.  Strange !  that  I  should 
dare  to  speak  thus  to  you,  whom  a  few  months  ago  I 
had  never  heard  of !  Wonderful  simplicity  of  love  ! 
How  all  that  is  prudish  and  artificial  flees  before  it ! 
I  seem  to  have  begun  a  new  life.  If  I  could  play 
now,  it  would  be  only  with  little  children.  Farewell ! 
be  great — a  glorious  future  is  before  you  and  me  in 
you!" 

Lancelot's  answer  must  remain  untold ;  perhaps 
the  veil  has  been  already  too  far  lifted  which  hides 
the  sanctuary  of  such  love.  But,  alas !  to  his  letter 
no  second  had  been  returned ;  and  he  felt — though 
he  dared  not  confess  it  to  himself — a  gloomy  presenti- 
ment of  evil  flit  across  him,  as  he  thought  of  his 
fallen  fortunes,  and  the  altered  light  in  which  his 
suit  would  be  regarded  by  Argemone's  parents.  Once 
he  blamed  himself  bitterly  for  not  having  gone  to  Mr. 
Lavington  the  moment  he  discovered  Argemone's 
affection,  and  insuring — as  he  then  might  have  done 
— his  consent  But  again  he  felt  that  no  sloth  had 
kept  him  back,  but  adoring  reverence  for  his  God- 
given  treasure,  and  humble  astonishment  at  his  own 
happiness ;  and  he  fled  from  the  thought  into  renewed 
examination  into  the  state  of  the  masses,  the  effect  of 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ?  273 

which  was  only  to  deepen  his  own  determination  to 
share  their  lot. 

But  at  the  same  time  it  seemed  to  him  but  fair  to 
live,  as  long  as  it  would  last,  on  that  part  of  his 
capital  which  his  creditors  would  have  given  nothing 
for — namely,  his  information ;  and  he  set  to  work  to 
write.  But,  alas  !  he  had  but  a  "  small  literary  "con- 
nection;" and  the  entree  of  the  initiated  ring  is  not 
obtained  in  a  day.  .  .  .  Besides,  he  would  not  write 
trash.- — He  was  in  far  too  grim  a  humour  for  that; 
and  if  he  wrote  on  important  subjects,  able  editors 
always  were  in  the  habit  of  entrusting  them  to  old 
contributors, — men,  in  short,  in  whose  judgment  they 
had  confidence — not  to  say  anything  which  would 
commit  the  magazine  to  anything  but  its  own  little 
party-theory.  And  behold  !  poor  Lancelot  found  him- 
self of  no  party  whatsoever.  He  was  in  a  minority 
of  one  against  the  whole  world,  on  all  points,  right  or 
wrong.  He  had  the  unhappiest  knack  (as  all  geniuses 
have)  of  seeing  connections,  humorous  or  awful,  be- 
tween the  most  seemingly  antipodal  things ;  of  illus- 
trating every  subject  from  three  or  four  different 
spheres  which  it  is  anathema  to  mention  in  the  same 
page.  If  he  wrote  a  physical -science  article,  able 
editors  asked  him  what  the  deuce  a  scrap  of  high- 
churchism  did  in  the  middle  of  it1?  If  he  took  the 
same  article  to  a  high -church  magazine,  the  editor 
could  not  commit  himself  to  any  theory  which  made 
the  earth  more  than  six  thousand  years  old,  and  was 
afraid  that  the  public  taste  would  not  approve  of  the 

T  Y 


274  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE 

allusions  to  free-masonry  and  Soyer's  soup.  .  .  .  And 
worse  than  that,  one  and  all — Jew,  Turk,  infidel,  and 
heretic,  as  well  as  the  orthodox — joined  in  pious 
horror  at  his  irreverence; — the  shocking  way  he  had 
of  jumbling  religion  and  politics  —  the  human  and  the 
divine — the  theories  of  the  pulpit  with  the  facts  of 
the  'exchange.  .  .  .  The  very  atheists,  who  laughed 
at  him  for  believing  in  a  God,  agreed  that  that,  at 
least,  was  inconsistent  with  the  dignity  of  the  God — 
who  did  not  exist  ...  It  was  Syncretism  .  .  .  Pan- 
theism. .  .  . 

"Very  well,  friends,"  quoth  Lancelot  to  himself, 
in  bitter  rage,  one  day,  "  if  you  choose  to  be  without 
God  in  the  world,  and  to  honour  Him  by  denying 
Him  .  .  .  do  so  !  You  shall  have  your  way ;  and  go 
to  the  place  whither  it  seems  leading  you  just  now,  at 
railroad  pace.  But  I  must  live.  .  .  .  Well,  at  least, 
there  is  some  old  college  nonsense  of  mine,  written 
three  years  ago,  when  I  believed,  like  you,  that  all 
heaven  and  earth  was  put  together  out  of  separate 
bits,  like  a  child's  puzzle,  and  that  each  topic  ought 
to  have  its  private  little  pigeon-hole  all  to  itself  in  a 
man's  brain,  like  drugs  in  a  chemist's  shop.  Perhaps 
it  will  suit  you,  friends ;  perhaps  it  will  be  system- 
frozen,  and  narrow,  and  dogmatic,  and  cowardly,  and 
godless  enough  for  you."  .  .  . 

So  he  went  forth  with  them  to  market ;  ami  IMJ- 
hold  !  they  were  bought  forthwith.  There  was  verily 
a  demand  for  such;  .  .  .  and  in  spite  of  the  ten 
thousand  ink-fountains  which  were  daily  pouring  out 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE?  275 

similar  Stygian  liquors,  the  public  thirst  remained 
unslaked.  "Well,"  thought  Lancelot,  "the  negro 
race  is  not  the  only  one  which  is  afflicted  with  manias 
for  eating  dirt.  .  .  .  By-the-by,  where  is  poor  LukeT' 

Ah !  where  was  poor  Luke  ?  Lancelot  had  re- 
ceived from  him  one  short  and  hurried  note,  blotted 
with  tears,  which  told  how  he  had  informed  his 
father ;  and  how  his  father  had  refused  to  see  him, 
and  had  forbid  him  the  house;  and  how  he  had 
offered  him  an  allowance  of  fifty  pounds  a  year  (it 
should  have  been  five  hundred,  he  said,  if  he  had 
possessed  it),  which  Luke's  director,  sensibly  enough, 
had  compelled  him  to  accept.  .  .  .  And  there  the 
letter  ended,  abruptly,  leaving  the  writer  evidently  in 
lower  depths  than  he  had  either  experienced  already, 
or  expected  at  all. 

Lancelot  had  often  pleaded  for  him  with  his  father ; 
but  in  vain.  Not  that  the  good  man  was  hard- 
hearted :  he  would  cry  like  a  child  about  it  all  to 
Lancelot  when  they  sat  together  after  dinner.  But 
he  was  utterly  beside  himself,  what  with  grief,  shame, 
terror,  and  astonishment.  On  the  whole,  the  sorrow 
was  a  real  comfort  to  him  :  it  gave  him  something  be- 
side his  bankruptcy  to  think  of;  and,  distracted  between 
the  two  different  griefs,  he  could  brood  over  neither. 
But  of  the  two,  certainly  his  son's  conversion  was  the 
worst  in  his  eyes.  The  bankruptcy  was  intelligible — 
measurable ;  it  was  something  known  and  classified — 
part  of  the  ills  which  flesh  (or,  at  least,  commercial 
flesh)  is  heir  to.  But  going  to  Rome  ! — 


276  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ? 

"I  can't  understand  it  I  won't  believe  it  It's 
so  foolish,  you  see,  Lancelot — so  foolish — like  an  ass 
that  eats  thistles !  .  .  .  There  must  be  some  reason ; 
— there  must  be — something  we  don't  know,  sir !  Do 
you  think  they  could  have  promised  to  make  him  a 
cardinal  ?" 

Lancelot  quite  agreed  that  there  were  reasons  for 
it,  that  they — or,  at  least,  the  banker — did  not 
know.  .  .  . 

"Depend  upon  it,  they  promised  him  something — 
some  prince -bishopric,  perhaps.  Else  why  on  earth 
could  a  man  go  over !  It's  out  of  the  course  of 
nature!" 

Lancelot  tried  in  vain  to  make  him  understand 
that  a  man  might  sacrifice  everything  to  conscience, 
and  actually  give  up  all  worldly  weal  for  what  he 
thought  right  The  banker  turned  on  him  with 
angry  resignation 

"Very  well — I  suppose  he's  done  right  then!  I 
suppose  you'll  go  next !  Take  up  a  false  religion, 
and  give  up  everything  for  it !  Why,  then,  he  must 
be  honest ;  and  if  he's  honest,  he's  in  the  right ;  and 
I  suppose  I'd  better  go  too ! " 

Lancelot  argued :  but  in  vain.  The  idea  of  dis- 
interested sacrifice  was  so  utterly  foreign  to  the  good 
man's  own  creed  and  practice,  that  he  could  but  see 
one  pair  of  alternatives. 

"Either  he  is  a  good  man,  or  he's  a  hypocrite. 
Either  he's  right,  or  he's  gone  over  for  some  vile 
selfish  end ;  and  what  can  that  bo  but  money?" 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ?  277 

Lancelot  gently  hinted  that  there  might  be  other 
selfish  ends  besides  pecuniary  ones — saving  one's  soul, 
for  instance. 

"Why,  if  he  wants  to  save  his  soul,  he's  right. 
What  ought  we  all  to  do,  but  try  to  save  our  souls  1 
I  tell  you  there's  some  sinister  reason.  They've  told 
him  that  they  expect  to  convert  England' — I  should 
like  to  see  them  do  it! — and  that  he'll  be  made  a 
bishop.  Don't  argue  with  me,  or  you'll  drive  me 
inad.  I  know  those  Jesuits  ! " 

And  as  soon  as  he  began  upon  the  Jesuits,  Lance- 
lot prudently  held  his  tongue.  The  good  man  had 
worked  himself  up  into  a  perfect  frenzy  of  terror  and 
suspicion  about  them.  He  suspected  concealed  Jesuits 
among  his  footmen  and  his  housemaids;  Jesuits  in 
his  counting-house,  Jesuits  in  his  duns.  .  .  . 

"  Hang  it,  sir !  how  do  I  know  that  there  ain't  a 
Jesuit  listening  to  us  now  behind  the  curtain  ?" 

"I'll  go  and  look,"  quoth  Lancelot,  and  suited  the 
action  to  the  word. 

"Well,  if  there  ain't  there  might  be.  They're 
everywhere,  I  tell  you.  That  vicar  of  Whitford  was 
a  Jesuit.  I  was  sure  of  it  all  along ;  but  the  man 
seemed  so  pious ;  and  certainly  he  did  my  poor  dear 
boy  a  deal  of  good.  But  he  ruined  you,  you  know. 
And  I'm  convinced — no,  don't  contradict  me;  I  tell 
you,  I  won't  stand  it — I'm  convinced  that  this  whole 
mess  of  mine  is  a  plot  of  those  rascals ; — I'm  as  certain 
of  it  as  if  they'd  told  me  !" 

"  For  what  end  V ' 


278  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ? 

"How  the  deuce  can  I  tell?  Am  I  a  Jesuit,  to 
understand  their  sneaking,  underhand — pah  !  I'm 
sick  of  life  !  Nothing  but  rogues  wherever  one  turns !" 

And  then  Lancelot  used  to  try  to  persuade  him  to 
take  poor  Luke  back  again.  But  vague  terror  had 
steeled  his  heart 

"  NVhat !  Why,  he'd  convert  us  all !  He'd  con- 
vert his  sisters !  He'd  bring  his  priests  in  here,  or 
his  nuns  disguised  as  lady's  maids,  and  we  should  all 
go  over,  every  one  of  us,  like  a  set  of  nine-pins  ! " 

"  You  seem  to  think  Protestantism  a  rather  shaky 
cause,  if  it  is  so  easy  to  be  upset" 

"  Sir !  Protestantism  is  the  cause  of  England  and 
Christianity,  and  civilisation,  and  freedom,  and  com- 
mon sense,  sir !  and  that's  the  very  reason  why  it's  so 
easy  to  pervert  men  from  it;  and  the  very  reason 
why  it's  a  lost  cause,  and  popery,  and  Antichrist,  and 
the  gates  of  hell  are  coming  in  like  a  flood  to  prevail 
against  it!" 

"Well,"  thought  Lancelot,  "that  is  the  very 
strangest  reason  for  it's  being  a  lost  cause  !  Perhaps 
if  my  poor  uncle  believed  it  really  to  be  the  cause  of 
God  Himself,  he  would  not  be  in  such  extreme  fear 
for  it,  or  fancy  it  required  such  a  hot-bed  and  green- 
house culture.  .  .  .  Really,  if  his  sisters  were  little 
girls  of  ten  years  old,  who  looked  up  to  him  as  an 
oracle,  there  would  be  some  reason  in  it  ...  But 
those  tall,  ball-going,  flirting,  self-satisfied  cousins  of 
mine — who  would  have  been  glad  enough,  either  of 
them,  two  months  ago,  to  snap  up  me,  infidelity.  l>:nl 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ?  279 

character,  and  all,  as  a  charming  rich  young  rout — if 
they  have  not  learnt  enough  Protestantism  in  the  last 
five-and-twenty  years  to  take  care  of  themselves,  Pro- 
testantism must  have  very  few  allurements,  or  else  be 
very  badly  carried  out  in  practice  by  those  who  talk 
loudest  in  favour  of  it.  ...  I  heard  them  praising 
O'Blareaway's  'ministry,'  by -the -by,  the  other  day. 
So  he  is  up  in  town  at  last — at  the  summit  of  his 
ambition.  Well,  he  may  suit  them.  I  wonder  how 
many  young  creatures  like  Argemone  and  Luke  he 
would  keep  from  Popery  !" 

But  there  was  no  use  arguing  with  a  man  in  such 
a  state  of  mind ;  and  gradually  Lancelot  gave  it  up, 
in  hopes  that  time  would  bring  the  good  man  to  his 
sane  wits  again,  and  that  a  father's  feelings  would 
prove  themselves  stronger,  because  more  divine,  than 
a  so-called  Protestant's  fears,  though  that  would  have 
been,  in  the  banker's  eyes,  and  in  the  Jesuit's  also — so 
do  extremes  meet — the  very  reason  for  expecting  them 
to  be  the  weaker ;  for  it  is  the  rule  with  all  bigots, 
that  the  right  cause  is  always  a  lost  cause,  and  there- 
fore requires — God's  weapons  of  love,  truth,  and  reason 
being  well  known  to  be  too  weak — to  be  defended,  if 
it  is  to  be  saved,  with  the  devil's  weapons  of  bad  logic, 
spite,  and  calumny. 

At  last,  in  despair  of  obtaining  tidings  of  his  cousin 
by  any  other  method,  Lancelot  made  up  his  mind  to 
apply  to  a  certain  remarkable  man,  whose  "conver- 
sion" had  preceded  Luke's  about  a  year,  and  had, 
indeed,  mainly  caused  it. 


280  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ? 

He  went,  .  .  .  and  was  not  disappointed.  With 
the  most  winning  courtesy  and  sweetness,  his  story 
and  his  request  were  patiently  listened  to. 

"  The  outcome  of  your  speech,  then,  my  dear  sir, 
as  I  apprehend  it,  is  a  request  to  me  to  send  back  the 
fugitive  lamb  into  the  jaws  of  the  well-meaning,  but 
still  lupine  wolf?" 

This  was  spoken  with  so  sweet  and  arch  a  smile, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  be  angry. 

"On  my  honour,  I  have  no  wish  to  convert  him. 
All  I  want  is  to  have  human  speech  of  him — to  hear 
from  his  own  lips  that  he  is  content  Whither  should 
I  convert  him  1  Not  to  my  own  platform — for  I  am 
nowhere.  Not  to  that  which  he  has  left,  .  .  .  for  if 
he  could  have  found  standing  ground  there,  he  would 
not  have  gone  elsewhere  for  rest" 

"  Therefore  they  went  out  from  you,  because  they 
were  not  of  you,"  said  the  "Father,"  half  asida 

"Most  true,  sir.  I  have  felt  long  that  argument 
was  bootless  with  those  whose  root- ideas  of  Deity, 
man,  earth,  and  heaven,  were  as  utterly  different  from 
my  own,  as  if  we  had  been  created  by  two  different 
beings." 

"  Do  you  include  in  that  catalogue  those  ideas  of 
truth,  love,  and  justice,  which  are  Deity  itself?  Have 
you  no  common  ground  in  them  ?" 

"  You  are  an  elder  and  a  better  man  than  I.  ... 
It  would  be  insolent  in  mo  to  answer  that  question, 
except  in  one  way,  .  .  .  and — 

"In  that  you  cannot  answer  it     Be  it  so.  ... 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ?  281 

You  shall  see  your  cousin.  You  may  make  what 
efforts  you  will  for  his  re-conversion.  The  Catholic 
Church,"  continued  he,  with  one  of  his  arch,  deep- 
meaning  smiles,  "is  not,  like  popular  Protestantism, 
driven  into  shrieking  terror  at  the  approach  of  a  foe. 
She  has  too  much  faith  in  herself,  and  in  Him  who 
gives  to  her  the  power  of  truth,  to  expect  every  gay 
meadow  to  allure  away  her  lambs  from  the  fold." 

"  I  assure  you  that  your  gallant  permission  is  un- 
necessary. I  am  beginning,  at  least,  to  believe  that 
there  is  a  Father  in  Heaven  who  educates  His  children; 
and  I  have  no  wish  to  interfere  with  His  methods. 
Let  my  cousin  go  his  way  ...  he  will  learn  some- 
thing which  he  wanted,  I  doubt  not,  on  his  present 
path,  even  as  I  shall  on  mine.  '  Se  tu  segui  la  tua 
stella '  is  my  motto.  .  .  .  Let  it  be  his  too,  Avherever 
the  star  may  guide  him.  If  it  be  a  will-o'-the-wisp, 
and  lead  to  the  morass,  he  will  only  learn  how  to 
avoid  morasses  better  for  the  future." 

"  Ave  Maris  stella !  It  is  the  star  of  Bethlehem 
which  he  follows  .  .  .  the  star  of  Mary,  immaculute, 
all-loving  !"  .  .  .  And  he  bowed  his  head  reverently. 
"  Would  that  you,  too,  would  submit  yourself  to  that 
guidance !  .  .  .  You,  too,  would  seem  to  want  some 
loving  heart  whereon  to  rest."  .  .  . 

Lancelot  sighed.  "I  am  not  a  child,  but  a  man;  I 
want  not  a  mother  to  pet,  but  a  man  to  rule  me." 

Slowly  his  companion  raised  his  thin  hand,  and 
pointed  to  the  crucifix,  which  stood  at  the  other  end 
of  the  apartment. 


L'-L'  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ? 

"Behold  him  !"  and  he  bowed  his  head  once  more 
.  .  .  and  Lancelot,  he  knew  not  why,  did  the  same 
.  .  .  and  yet  in  an  instant  he  threw  his  head  up 
proudly,  and  answered  with  George  Fox's  old  reply 
to  the  Puritans,— 

"  I  want  a  live  Christ,  not  a  dead  one.  .  .  .  That 
is  noble  .  .  .  beautiful  ...  it  may  be  true.  .  .  .  But 
it  has  no  message  for  me." 

"Me  died  for  you." 

"  I  care  for  the  world,  and  not  myself. 

"He  died  for  the  world." 

"  And  has  deserted  it,  as  folks  say  now,  and  become 
— an  absentee,  performing  his  work  by  deputies.  .  .  . 
Do  not  start ;  the  blasphemy  is  not  mine,  but  those 
who  preach  it  No  wonder  that  the  owners  of  the 
soil  think  it  no  shame  to  desert  their  estates,  when 
preachers  tell  them  that  He  to  whom  they  say,  all 
power  is  given  in  heaven  and  earth,  has  deserted  His." 

"What  would  you  have,  my  dear  sir?"  asked  the 
father. 

"  What  the  Jews  had.  A  king  of  my  nation,  and 
of  the  hearts  of  my  nation,  who  would  teach  soldiers, 
artists,  craftsmen,  statesmen,  poets,  priests,  if  priests 
there  must  be.  I  want  a  human  lord,  who  understands 
mo  and  the  millions  round  me,  pities  us,  teaches  us, 
orders  our  history,  civilisation,  development  for  us.  I 
come  to  you,  full  of  manhood,  and  you  send  me  to  a 
woman.  I  go  to  the  Protestants,  full  of  desires  to 
right  the  world — and  they  begin  to  talk  of  the  next 
life,  and  give  up  this  as  lost !" 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ?  283 

A  quiet  smile  lighted  up  the  thin  wan  face,  full  of 
unfathomable  thoughts ;  and  he  replied,  again  half  to 
himself, — 

"Am  I  God,  to  kill  or  to  make  alive,  that  thou 
sendest  to  me  to  recover  a  man  of  his  leprosy  1  Fare- 
well. You  shall  see  your  cousin  here  at  noon  to- 
morrow. You  will  not  refuse  my  blessing,  or  my 
prayers,  even  though  they  be  offered  to  a  mother  ?" 

"  I  will  refuse  nothing  in  the  form  of  human  love." 
And  the  father  blessed  him  fervently,  and  he  went 
out.  .  .  . 

"  What  a  man  !"  said  he  to  himself,  "  or  rather  the 
wreck  of  what  a  man !  Oh,  for  such  a  heart,  with 
the  thews  and  sinews  of  a  truly  English  brain  ! " 

Next  day  he  met  Luke  in  that  room.  Their  talk 
was  short  and  sad.  Luke  was  on  the  point  of  enter- 
ing an  order  devoted  especially  to  the  worship  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin. 

"  My  father  has  cast  me  out  ...  I  must  go  to  her 
feet.  She  will  have  mercy,  though  man  has  none." 

"  But  why  enter  the  order  1  Why  take  an  irrevo- 
cable step  ?" 

"Because  it  is  irrevocable;  because  I  shall  enter 
an  utterly  new  life,  in  which  old  things  shall  pass 
away,  and  all  things  become  new,  and  I  shall  forget 
the  very  names  of  Parent,  Englishman,  Citizen, — the 
very  existence  of  that  strange  Babel  of  man's  building, 
whose  roar  and  moan,  oppress  me  every  time  I  walk 
the  street.  Oh,  for  solitude,  meditation,  penance ! 
Oh,  to  make  up  by  bitter  self-punishment  my  ingrati- 


284  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ? 

tu<le  to  her  who  has  been  leading  me  unseen,  for 
years,  home  to  her  bosom  ? — The  all-prevailing  mother, 
daughter  of  Gabriel,  spouse  of  Deity,  flower  of  the 
earth,  whom  I  have  so  long  despised  !  Oh,  to  follow 
the  example  of  the  blessed  Mary  of  Oignies,  who 
every  day  inflicted  on  her  most  holy  person  eleven 
hundred  stripes  in  honour  of  that  all-perfect  maiden!" 

"Such  an  honour,  I  could  have  thought,  would 
have  pleased  better  Kali,  the  murder-goddess  of  the 
Thugs,"  thought  Lancelot  to  himself  ;  but  he  had  not 
the  heart  to  say  it,  and  he  only  replied, — 

"  So  torture  propitiates  the  virgin  ?  That  explains 
the  strange  story  I  read  lately,  of  her  having  appeared 
in  the  Cevennes,  and  informed  the  peasantry  that  she 
had  sent  the  potato  disease  on  account  of  their  neglect- 
ing her  shrines ;  that  unless  they  repented,  she  would 
next  year  destroy  their  cattle;  and  the  third  year, 
themselves." 

"Why  not?"  asked  poor  Luke. 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?  If  God  is  to  be  capricious, 
proud,  revengeful,  why  not  the  Son  of  God  ?  And  if 
the  Son  of  God,  why  not  His  mother  ?" 

"  You  judge  spiritual  feelings  by  the  carnal  test  of 
the  understanding ;  your  Protestant  horror  of  asceti- 
cism lies  at  the  root  of  all  you  say.  How  can  you 
comprehend  the  self-satisfaction,  the  absolute  delight, 
of  self-punishment?" 

"So  far  from  it,  I  have  always  had  an  infinite 
respect  for  asceticism,  as  a  noble  and  manful  thing — 
the  only  manful  thing  to  my  eyes  left  in  popery  ;  and 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ?  285 

fast  dying  out  of  that  under  Jesuit  influence.  You 
recollect  the  quarrel  between  the  Tablet  and  the 
Jesuits,  over  Faber's  unlucky  honesty  about  St.  Eose 
of  Lima?  .  .  .  But,  really,  as  long  as  you  honour 
asceticism  as  a  means  of  appeasing  the  angry  deities, 
I  shall  prefer  to  St.  Dominic's  cuirass  or  St.  Hedwiga's 
chilblains,  John  Mytton's  two  hours'  crawl  on  the  ice 
in  his  shirt,  after  a  flock  of  wild  ducks.  They  both 
endured  like  heroes ;  but  the  former  for  a  selfish,  if 
not  a  blasphemous  end ;  the  latter  as  a  man  should  to 
test  and  strengthen  his  own  powers  of  endurance.  .  .  . 
There,  I  will  say  no  more.  Go  your  way,  in  God's 
name.  There  must  be  lessons  to  be  learnt  in  all 
strong  and  self-restraining  action.  ...  So  you  will 
learn  something  from  the  scourge  and  the  hair-shirt. 
We  must  all  take  the  bitter  medicine  of  suffering,  I 
suppose." 

"And,  therefore,  I  am  the  wiser,  in  forcing  the 
draught  on  myself." 

"Provided  it  be  the  right  draught,  and  do  not 
require  another  and  still  bitterer  one  to  expel  the 
effects  of  the  poison.  I  have  no  faith  in  people's 
doctoring  themselves,  either  physically  or  spiritually." 

"  I  am  not  my  own  physician ;  I  follow  the  rules  of 
an  infallible  Church,  and  the  examples  of  her  canon- 
ised saints." 

"  Well  .  .  .  perhaps  they  may  have  known  what 
was  best  for  themselves.  .  .  .  But  as  for  you  and  me 
here,  in  the  year  1849.  .  .  .  However,  we  shall  argue 
on  for  ever.  Forgive  me  if  I  have  offended  you." 


286  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ? 

"I  am  not  offended  The  Catholic  Church  has 
always  been  a  persecuted  one." 

"  Then  walk  with  me  a  little  way,  and  I  will  perse- 
cute you  no  more." 

"  Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  ...  To "  Lancelot  had  not  the  heart  to 

say  whither. 

"  To  my  father's !  Ah  !  what  a  son  I  would  have 
been  to  liim  now,  in  Ms  extreme  need  !  .  .  .  And  he 
will  not  let  me !  Lancelot,  is  it  impossible  to  move 
him  ?  I  do  not  want  to  go  home  again  ...  to  live 
there  ...  I  could  not  face  that,  though  I  longed 
but  this  moment  to  do  it  I  cannot  face  the  self- 
satisfied,  pitying  looks  .  .  .  the  everlasting  suspicion 
that  they  suspect  me  to  be  speaking  untruths,  or 
proselytising  in  secret.  .  .  .  Cruel  and  unjust ! " 

Lancelot  thought  of  a  certain  letter  of  Luke's  .  .  . 
but  who  was  he,  to  break  the  bruised  reed  1 

"No;  I  will  not  see  him.  Better  thus;  better 
vanish,  and  be  known  only  according  to  the  spirit  by 
the  spirits  of  saints  and  confessors,  and  their  successors 
upon  earth.  No  !  I  will  die,  and  give  no  sign." 

"I  must  see  somewhat  more  of  you,  indeed." 

"I  will  meet  you  here,  then,  two  hours  hence. 
Near  that  house — even  along  the  way  which  leads  to 
it — I  cannot  go.  It  would  be  too  painful :  too  pain- 
ful to  think  that  you  were  walking  towards  it, — the 
old  house  where  I  was  born  and  bred  .  .  .  and  I  shut 
out, — even  though  it  be  for  the  sake  of  the  kingdom 
of  heaven !" 


WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE  ?  287 

"  Or  for  the  sake  of  your  own  share  therein,  my 
poor  cousin !"  thought  Lancelot  to  himself,  "which  is 
a  very  different  matter." 

"  Whither,  after  you  have  been ?"  Luke  could 

not  get  out  the  word  home. 

"To  Claude  Mellot's." 

"I  will  walk  part  of  the  way  thither  with  you. 
But  he  is  a  very  bad  companion  for  you." 

"  I  can't  help  that.  I  cannot  live';  and  I  am  going 
to  turn  painter.  It  is  not  the  road  in  which  to  find 
a  fortune ;  but  still,  the  very  sign-painters  live  some- 
how, I  suppose.  I  am  going  this  very  afternoon  to 
Claude  Mellot,  and  enlist.  I  sold  the  last  of  my 
treasured  MSS.  to  a  fifth-rate  magazine  this  morning, 
for  what  it  would  fetch.  It  has  been  like  eating  one's 
own  children — but,  at  least,  they  have  fed  me.  So 
now  'to  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new.'" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

.DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

WHEN  Lancelot  reached  the  banker's  a  letter  was  put 
into  his  hand ;  it  bore  the  Whitford  post-mark,  and 
Mrs.  Lavington's  handwriting.  He  tore  it  open ;  it 
contained  a  letter  from  Argemone,  which,  it  is  need- 
less to  say,  he  read  before  her  mother's : — 

"  My  beloved  !  my  husband  ! — Yes — though  you 
may  fancy  me  fickle  and  proud — I  will  call  you  so  to 
the  last ;  for  were  I  fickle,  I  could  have  saved  myself 
the  agony  of  writing  this ;  and  as  for  pride,  oh  !  how 
that  darling  vice  has  been  crushed  out  of  me !  I  have 
rolled  at  my  mother's  feet  with  bitter  tears,  and  vain 
entreaties — and  been  refused  ;  and  yet  I  have  obeyed 
her  after  all.  We  must  write  to  each  other  no  more. 
This  one  last  letter  must  explain  the  forced  silence 
which  has  been  driving  me  mad  with  fears  that  you 
would  suspect  me.  And  now  you  may  call  me  weak  ; 
but  it  is  your  love  which  has  made  me  strong  to  do 
this — which  has  taught  me  to  see  with  new  intensity 
my  <luty,  not  only  to  you,  but  to  every  human  being 
— to  my  parents.  By  this  self-sacrifice  alone  can  I 


DEUS  E  MACHINl.  289 

atone  to  them  for  all  my  past  undutifulness.  Let  me, 
then,  thus  be  worthy  of  yon.  Hope  that  by  this  sub- 
mission we  may  win  even  her  to  change.  How  calmly 
I  write  !  but  it  is  only  my  hand  that  is  calm.  As  for 
my  heart,  read  Tennyson's  Fatima,  and  then  know 
how  I  feel  towards  you !  Yes,  I  love  you — madly, 
the  world  would  say.  I  seem  to  understand  now  how 
women  have  died  of  love.  Ay,  that  indeed  would  be 
blessed ;  for  then  my  spirit  would  seek  out  yours,  and 
hover  over  it  for  ever !  Farewell,  beloved !  and  let 
me  hear  of  you  through  your  deeds.  A  feeling  at  my 
heart,  which  should  not  be,  although  it  is,  a  sad  one, 
tells  me  that  we  shall  meet  soon — soon." 

Stupefied  and  sickened,  Lancelot  turned  carelessly 
to  Mrs.  Lavington's  cover,  whose  blameless  respecta- 
bility thus  uttered  itself : — 

"  I  cannot  deceive  you  or  myself  by  saying  I  regret 
that  providential  circumstances  should  have  been  per- 
mitted to  break  off  a  connection  which  I  always  felt 
to  be  most  unsuitable ;  and  I  rejoice  that  the  inter- 
course my  dear  child  has  had  with  you  has  not  so  far 
undermined  her  principles  as  to  prevent  her  yielding 
the  most  filial  obedience  to  my  wishes  on  the  point  of 
her  future  correspondence  with  you.  Hoping  that  all 
that  has  occurred  will  be  truly  blessed  to  you,  and 
lead  your  thoughts  to  another  world,  and  to  a  true 
concern  for  the  safety  of  your  immortal  soul, 

"  I  remain,  yours  truly, 

"C.  LAVINGTON." 


290  DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

"Another  world  !"  said  Lancelot  to  himself.  "It 
is  most  merciful  of  you,  certainly,  my  dear  madame, 
to  put  one  in  mind  of  the  existence  of  another  world, 
while  such  as  you  have  their  own  way  in  this  one  ? " 
and  thrusting  the  latter  epistle  into  the  fire,  he  tried 
to  collect  his  thoughts. 

What  had  he  lost  ?  The  oftener  he  asked  himself, 
the  less  he  found  to  unman  him.  Argemone's  letters 
were  so  new  a  want,  that  the  craving  for  them  was 
not  yet  established  His  intense  imagination,  resting 
on  the  delicious  certainty  of  her  faith,  seemed  ready 
to  fill  the  silence  with  bright  hopes  and  noble  pur- 
poses. She  herself  had  said  that  he  would  see  her 
soon.  But  yet — but  yet — why  did  that  allusion  to 
death  strike  chilly  through  him?  They  were  but 
words, — a  melancholy  fancy,  such  as  women  love  at 
times  to  play  with.  He  would  toss  it  from  him.  At 
least  here  was  another  reason  for  bestirring  himself  at 
once  to  win  fame  in  the  noble  profession  he  had 
chosen.  And  yet  his  brain  reeled  as  he  went  upstairs 
to  his  uncle's  private  room. 

There,  however,  he  found  a  person  closeted  with 
the  banker,  whose  remarkable  appearance  drove  every- 
thing else  out  of  his  mind.  He  was  a  huge,  shaggy,  toil- 
worn  man,  the  deep  melancholy  earnestness  of  whose 
nigged  features  reminded  him  almost  ludicrously  of 
one  of  Landseer's  bloodhounds.  But  withal  there  was 
a  tenderness — a  genial,  though  covert  humour  playing 
about  his  massive  features,  which  awakened  in  Lance- 
lot at  first  sight  a  fantastic  longing  to  o|>cn  his  whole 


DEUS  E  MACHINA.  291 

heart  to  him.  He  was  dressed  like  a  foreigner,  but 
spoke  English  with  perfect  fluency.  The  banker  sat 
listening,  quite  crest-fallen,  beneath  his  intense  and 
melancholy  gaze,  in  which,  nevertheless,  there  twinkled 
some  rays  of  kindly  sympathy. 

"  It  Avas  all  those  foreign  railways,"  said  Mr.  Smith, 
pensively. 

"And  it  serves  you  quite  right,"  answered  the 
stranger.  "  Did  I  not  warn  you  of  the  folly  and  sin 
of  sinking  capital  in  foreign  countries  while  English 
land  was  crying  out  for  tillage,  and  English  poor  for 
employment  1" 

"My  dear  friend"  (in  a  deprecatory  tone),  "it  was 
the  best  possible  investment  I  could  make." 

"  And  pray,  who  told  you  that  you  were  sent  into 
the  world  to  make  investments?" 

"But " 

"But  me  no  buts,  or  I  won't  stir  a  finger  towards 
helping  you.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  this 
money  if  I  procure  it  for  you  ?" 

"Work  till  I  can  pay  back  that  poor  fellow's 
fortune,"  said  the  banker,  earnestly  pointing  to  Lance- 
lot. "And  if  I  could  clear  my  conscience  of  that,  I 
would  not  care  if  I  starved  myself,  hardly  if  my  own 
children  did." 

"Spoken  like  a  man!"  answered  the  stranger; 
"work  for  that  and  I'll  help  you.  Be  anew  man, 
once  and  for  all,  my  friend.  Don't  even  make  this 
younker  your  first  object.  Say  to  yourself,  not  'I 
will  invest  this  money  where  it  shall  pay  nie  most,  but 


292  DEUS  E  MACIIINA. 

I  will  invest  it  where  it  shall  give  most  employment 
to  English  hands,  and  produce  most  manufactures  for 
English  bodies.'  In  short,  seek  first  the  kingdom  of 
God  and  His  justice  with  this  money  of  yours,  and 
see  if  all  other  things,  profits  and  such-like  included, 
are  not  added  unto  you." 

"  And  you  are  certain  you  can  obtain  the  money  ?" 

"My  good  friend  the  Begum  of  the  Cannibal 
Islands  has  more  than  she  knows  what  to  do  with ; 
and  she  owes  me  a  good  turn,  you  know." 

"  What  are  you  jesting  about  now?" 

"Did  I  never  tell  you?  The  new  king  of  the 
Cannibal  Islands,  just  like  your  European  ones,  ran 
away,  and  would  neither  govern  himself  nor  let  any 
one  else  govern ;  so  one  morning  his  ministers,  getting 
impatient,  ate  him,  and  then  asked  my  advice.  I 
recommended  them  to  put  his  mother  on  the  throne, 
who,  being  old  and  tough,  would  run  less  danger; 
and  since  then  everything  has  gone  on  smoothly  as 
anywhere  else." 

"Are  you  mad?"  thought  Lancelot  to  himself,  as 
he  stared  at  the  speaker's  matter-of-fact  face. 

"  No,  I  am  not  mad,  my  young  friend,"  quoth  he, 
facing  right  round  upon  him,  as  if  he  had  divined  his 
thoughts. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not  speak,"  stammered 
Lancelot,  abashed  at  a  pair  of  eyes  which  could  have 
looked  down  the  boldest  mesmerist  in  three  seconds. 

"  I  am  perfectly  well  aware  that  you  did  not  I 
must  have  uome  talk  with  you :  I've  heard  a  good 


DEUS  E  MACHINl.  293 

deal  about  you.  You  wrote  those  articles  in  the 

Keview  about  George  Sand,  did  you  not1?" 

"I  did." 

"Well,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  noble  feeling  in 
them,  and  a  great  deal  of  abominable  nonsense.  You 
seem  to  be  very  anxious  to  reform  society?" 

"lam." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  begin  by  reform- 
ing yourself  f 

"Eeally,  sir,"  answered  Lancelot,  "I  am  too  old 
for  that  worn-out  quibble.  The  root  of  all  my  sins 
has  been  selfishness  and  sloth.  Am  I  to  cure  them 
by  becoming  still  more  selfish  and  slothful?  What 
part  of  myself  can  I  reform  except  my  actions  ?  and 
the  very  sin  of  my  actions  has  been,  as  I  take  it,  that 
I've  been  doing  nothing  to  reform  others;  never 
fighting  against  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  as 
your  prayer-book  has  it." 

"My  prayer-book?"  answered  the  stranger,  with  a 
quaint  smile. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Lancelot,"  interposed  the  banker, 
with  a  frightened  look,  "you  must  not  get  into  an 
argument :  you  must  be  more  respectful :  you  don't 
know  to  whom  you  are  speaking." 

"  And  I  don't  much  care,"  answered  he.  "  Life  is 
really  too  grim  earnest  in  these  days  to  stand  on  cere- 
mony. I  am  sick  of  blind  leaders  of  the  blind,  of  re- 
spectable preachers  to  the  respectable,  who  drawl  out 
second-hand  trivialities,  which  they  neither  practise 
nor  wish  to  see  practised.  I've  had  enough  all  my 


294  DEUS  E  MACIIIN A. 

life  of  Scribes  and  Pharisees  in  white  cravats,  laying 
on  man  heavy  burdens,  and  grievous  to  be  borne,  and 
then  not  touching  them  themselves  with  one  of  their 
fingers." 

"Silence,  sir!"  roared  the  banker,  while  the 
stranger  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  burst  into  a 
storm  of  laughter. 

"  Upon  my  word,  friend  Mammon,  here's  another 
of  Hans  Andersen's  ugly  ducks  !" 

"  I  really  do  not  mean  to  be  rude,"  said  Lancelot, 
recollecting  himself,  "  but  I  am  nearly  desperate.  If 
your  heart  is  in  the  right  place,  you  will  understand 
me !  if  not,  the  less  we  talk  to  each  other  the 
better." 

"  Most  true,"  answered  the  stranger ;  "  and  I  do 
understand  you ;  and  if,  as  I  hope,  we  see  more  of 
each  other  henceforth,  we  will  see  if  we  cannot  solve 
one  or  two  of  these  problems  between  ua" 

At  this  moment  Lancelot  was  summoned  down- 
stairs, and  found,  to  his  great  pleasure,  Tregarva 
waiting  for  him.  That  worthy  personage  bowed  to 
Lancelot  reverently  and  distantly. 

"  I  am  quite  ashamed  to  intrude  myself  upon  you, 
sir,  but   I   could   not  rest  without  coming  to  ask 
whether  you  have  had  any  news." — He  broke  down 
at  this  point   in  the  sentence,  but  Lancelot  iimlci 
stood  him. 

"I  have  no  news,"  he  said.  "But  what  do  \»\\ 
mean  by  standing  off  in  that  way,  as  if  we  were  not 
old  and  fast  friends?  Remember,  I  am  as  poor  as 


DEUS  E  MACHINi.  295 

you  are  now ;  you  may  look  me  in  the  face  and  call 
me  your  equal,  if  you  will,  or  your  inferior ;  I  shall 
not  deny  it." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  answered  Tregarva ;  "  but  I 
never  felt  what  a  real  substantial  thing  rank  is,  as  I 
have  since  this  sad  misfortune  of  yours." 

"  And  I  have  never  till  now  found  out  its  worth- 
lessness." 

"  You're  wrong,  sir,  you  are  wrong ;  look  at  the 
difference  between  yourself  and  me.  When  you've 
lost  all  you  have,  and  seven  times  more,  you're  still 
a  gentleman.  No.  man  can  take  that  from  you.  You 
may  look  the  proudest  duchess  in  the  land  in  the  face, 
and  claim  her  as  your  equal ;  while  I,  sir, — I  don't 
mean,  though,  to  talk  of  myself — but  suppose  that 
you  had  loved  a  pious  and  a  beautiful  lady,  and  among 
all  your  worship  of  her,  and  your  awe  of  her,  had  felt 
that  you  were  worthy  of  her,  that  you  could  become 
her  comforter,  and  her  pride,  and  her  joy,  if  it  wasn't 
for  that  accursed  gulf  that  men  had  put  between  you, 
that  you  were  no  gentleman ;  that  you  didn't  know 
how  to  walk,  and  how  to  pronounce,  and  when  to 
speak,  and  when  to  be  silent,  not  even  how  to  handle 
your  own  knife  and  fork  without  disgusting  her,  or 

how  to  keep  your  own  body  clean  and  sweet Ah, 

sir,  I  see  it  now  as  I  never  did  before,  what  a  wall  all 
these  little  defects  build  up  round  a  poor  man ;  how 
he  longs  and  struggles  to  show  himself  as  he  is  at 
heart,  and  cannot,  till  he  feels  sometimes  as  if  he  was 
enchanted,  pent  up,  like  folks  in  fairy  tales,  in  the 


296  DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

body  of  some  dumb  beast  But,  sir,"  he  went  on, 
with  a  concentrated  bitterness  which  Lancelot  had 
never  seen  in  him  before,  "just  because  this  gulf 
which  rank  makes  is  such  a  deep  one,  therefore  it 
looks  to  me  all  the  more  devilish ;  not  that  I  want 
to  pull  down  any  man  to  my  level ;  I  despise  my  own 
level  too  much ;  I  want  to  rise ;  I  want  those  like  me 
to  rise  with  ma  Let  the  rich  be  as  rich  as  they  will. 
— I,  and  those  like  me,  covet  not  money,  but  manners. 
Why  should  not  the  workman  be  a  gentleman,  and  a 
workman  still  ?  Why  are  they  to  be  shut  out  from 
all  that  is  beautiful,  and  delicate,  and  winning,  and 
stately?" 

"Now  perhaps,"  said  Lancelot,  "you  begin  to 
understand  what  I  was  driving  at  on  that  night  of  the 
revel?" 

"It  has  come  home  to  me  lately,  sir,  bitterly 
enough.  If  you  knew  what  had  gone  on  in  me  this 
last  fortnight,  you  would  know  that  I  had  cause  to 
curse  the  state  of  things  which  brings  a  man  up  a 
savage  against  his  will,  and  cuts  him  off,  as  if  he  were 
an  ape  or  a  monster,  from  those  for  whom  the  same 
Lord  died,  and  on  whom  the  same  Spirit  rests.  Is 
that  God's  will,  sir  1  No,  it  is  the  devil's  will.  '  Those 
whom  God  hath  joined,  let  no  man  put  asunder.'" 

Lancelot  coloured,  for  he  remembered  with  how 
much  less  reason  he  had  been  lately  invoking  in  his 
own  cause  those  very  words.  He  was  at  a  loss  for 
an  answer;  but  seeing,  to  his  relief,  that  Tregarva 
had  returned  to  his  usual  impassive  calm,  lie  forced 


DEUS  E  MACHINi.  297 

him  to  sit  down,  and  began  questioning  him  as  to 
his  own  prospects  and  employment. 

About  them  Tregarva  seemed  hopeful  enough.  He 
had  found  out  a  Wesleyan  minister  in  town  who  knew 
him,  and  had,  by  his  means,  after  assisting  for  a  week 
or  two  in  the  London  City  Mission,  got  some  similar 
appointment  in  a  large  manufacturing  town.  Of  the 
state  of  things  he  spoke  more  sadly  than  ever.  "  The 
rich  cannot  guess,  sir,  how  high  ill-feeling  is  rising  in 
these  days.  It's  not  only  those  who  are  outwardly 
poorest  who  long  for  change;  the  middling  people, 
sir,  the  small  town  shopkeepers  especially,  are  nearly 
past  all  patience.  One  of  the  City  Mission  assured 
me  that  he  has  been  watching  them  these  several 
years  past,  and  that  nothing  could  beat  their  fortitude 
and  industry,  and  their  determination  to  stand  peace- 
ably by  law  and  order ;  but  yet,  this  last  year  or  two, 
things  are  growing  too  bad  to  bear.  Do  what  they 
will,  they  cannot  get  their  bread ;  and  when  a  man 
cannot  get  that,  sir — 

"But  what  do  you  think  is.  the  reason  of  it?" 
"  How  should  I  tell,  sir  1  But  if  I  had  to  say,  I 
should  say  this — just  what  they  say  themselves — that 
there  are  too  many  of  them.  Go  where  you  will,  in 
town  or  country,  you'll  find  half-a-dozen  shops  strug- 
gling for  a  custom  that  would  only  keep  up  one,  and 
so  they're  forced  to  undersell  one  another.  And 
when  they've  got  down  prices  all  they  can  by  fair 
means,  they're  forced  to  get  them  down  lower  by  foul 
— to  sand  the  sugar,  and  sloe-leave  the  tea,  and  put 


298  DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

— Satan  only  that  prompts  'em  knows  what — into  the 
bread;  ami  then  they  don't  thrive — they  can't  thrive; 
God's  curse  must  bo  on  them.  They  begin  by  trying 
to  oust  each  other,  and  eat  each  other  up ;  and  while 
they're  eating  up  their  neighbours,  their  neighbours 
eat  up  them ;  and  so  they  all  come  to  ruin  together." 

"  Why,  you  talk  like  Mr.  Mill  himself,  Tregarva ; 
you  ought  to  have  been  a  political  economist,  and  not 
a  City  missionary.  By-the-bye,  I  don't  like  that  pro- 
fession for  you." 

"  It's  the  Lord's  work,  sir.  It's  the  very  sending 
to  the  Gentiles  that  the  Lord  promised  me." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,  Paul ;  but  you  are  meant  for 
other  things,  if  not  better.  There  are  plenty  of 
smaller  men  than  you  to  do  that  work  Do  you  think 
that  God  would  have  given  you  that  strength,  that 
brain,  to  waste  on  a  work  which  could  be  done  with- 
out them?  Those  limbs  would  certainly  be  good 
capital  for  you,  if  you  turned  a  live  model  at  the 
Academy.  Perhaps  you'd  better  be  mine ;  but  you 
can't  even  bo  that  if  you  go  to  Manchester." 

The  giant  looked  hopelessly  down  at  his  huge 
limbs. 

"  Well ;  God  only  knows  what  use  they  are  of  just 
now.  But  as  for  the  brains,  sir — in  much  learning  is 
much  sorrow.  One  had  much  better  work  than  read, 
I  find.  If  I  read  much  more  about  what  men  might 
bo,  and  are  not,  and  what  English  soil  might  IM»,  and 
is  not,  I  shall  go  mad.  And  that  puts  me  in  mind  of 
one  thing  I  came  here  for,  though,  like  a  jKX)r  rude 


DEUS  E  MACHINA.  299 

country  fellow  as  I  am,  I  clean  forgot  it  a  thinking  of 

.  Look  here,  sir;  you've  given  me  a  sight  of 

books  in  my  time,  and  God  bless  you  for  it.  But 
now  I  hear  that — that  you  are  determined  to  be  a 
poor  man  like  us ;  and  that  you  shan't  be,  while  Paul 
Tregarva  has  ought  of  yours.  So  I've  just  brought 
all  the  books  back,  and  there  they  lie  in  the  hall ;  and 
may  God  reward  you  for  the  loan  of  them  to  his  poor 
child  !  And  so,  sir,  farewell ; "  and  he  rose  to  go. 

"No,  Paul;  the  books  and  you  shall  never  part." 

"And  I  say,  sir,  the  books  and  you  shall  never 
part." 

"Then  we  two  can  never  part" — and  a  sudden 
impulse  flashed  over  him — "and  we  will  not  part, 
Paul !  The  only  man  whom  I  utterly  love,  and  trust, 
and  respect  on  the  face  of  God's  earth,  is  you ;  and  I 
cannot  lose  sight  of  you.  If  we  are  to  earn  our  bread, 
let  us  earn  it  together ;  if  we  are  to  endure  poverty, 
and  sorrow,  and  struggle  to  find  out  the  way  of  better- 
ing these  wretched  millions  round  us,  let  us  learn 
our  lesson  together,  and  help  each  other  to  spell  it 
out." 

"  Do  you  mean  what  you  say  ?"  asked  Paul  slowly. 

"I  do." 

"  Then  I  say  what  you  say.  Where  thou  goest,  I 
will  go ;  and  where  thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge.  Come 
what  will,  I  will  be  your  servant,  for  good  luck  or 
bad,  for  ever." 

"My  equal,  Paul,  not  my  servant." 

"  I  know  my  place,  sir.     When  I  am  as  learned 


300  DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

and  as  well-bred  as  you,  I  shall  not  refuse  to  call  my- 
self your  equal ;  and  the  sooner  that  day  comes,  the 
better  I  shall  l>e  pleased.  Till  then  I  am  your  friend 
and  your  brother ;  but  I  am  your  scholar  too,  and  I 
shall  not  set  up  myself  against  my  master." 

"  I  have  learnt  more  of  you,  Paul,  than  ever  you 
have  learnt  of  ma  But  be  it  as  you  will ;  only  what- 
ever you  may  call  yourself,  we  must  eat  at  the  same 
table,  live  in  the  same  room,  and  share  alike  all  this 
world's  good  things — or  we  shall  have  no  right  to 
share  together  this  world's  bad  things.  If  that  is  your 
bargain,  there  is  my  hand  on  it" 

"Amen!"  quoth  Tregarva;  and  the  two  young 
men  joined  hands  in  that  sacred  bond — now  growing 
rarer  and  rarer  year  by  year — the  utter  friendship  of 
two  equal  manful  hearts. 

"And  now,  sir,  I  have  promised — and  you  would 
have  me  keep  my  promise — to  go  and  work  for  the 
City  Mission  in  Manchester — at  least,  for  the  next 
month,  till  a  young  man's  place  who  has  just  left,  is 
filled  up.  Will  you  let  mo  go  for  that  time?  and 
then,  if  you  hold  your  present  mind,  we  will  join 
home  and  fortunes  thenceforth,  and  go  wherever  the 
Lord  shall  send  us.  There's  work  enough  of  His 
waiting  to  IHJ  done.  I  don't  doubt  but  if  we  are  will- 
ing and  able,  He  will  set  us  about  the  thing  we're 
meant  for." 

As  Lancelot  opened  the  door  for  him,  ho  lingered 
on  the  steps,  and  grasping  his  hand,  said,  in  a  low, 
earnest  voice  :  "  The  Lord  be  with  you,  sir.  Be  sure 


DEUS  E  MACHINi.  301 

that  He  has  mighty  things  in  store  for  yon,  or  He 
would  not  have  brought  you  so  low  in  the  days  of 
your  youth." 

"And  so,"  as  John  Bunyan  has  it,  "he  went  on 
his  way;"  and  Lancelot  saw  him  no  more  till — but 
I  must  not  outrun  the  order  of  time. 

After  all,  this  visit  came  to  Lancelot  timely.  It 
had  roused  him  to  hope,  and  turned  off  his  feelings 
from  the  startling  news  he  had  just  heard.  He 
stepped  along  arm  in  arm  with  Luke,  cheerful, 
and  fate -defiant,  and  as  he  thought  of  Tregarva's 
complaints, — 

"The  beautiful?"  he  said  to  himself,  "they  shall 
have  it !  At  least  they  shall  be  awakened  to  feel 
their  need  of  it,  their  right  to  it.  What  a  high 
destiny,  to  be  the  artist  of  the  people !  to  devote 
one's  powers  of  painting,  not  to  mimicking  obsolete 
legends,  Pagan  or  Popish,  but  to  representing  to  the 
working  men  of  England  the  triumphs  of  the  Past 
and  the  yet  greater  triumphs  of  the  Future  ! " 

Luke  began  at  once  questioning  him  about  his 
father. 

"  And  is  he  contrite  and  humbled  1  Does  he  see 
that  he  has  sinned?" 

"In  what?" 

"  It  is  not  for  us  to  judge ;  but  surely  it  must  have 
been  some  sin  or  other  of  his  which  has  drawn  down 
such  a  sore  judgment  on  him." 

Lancelot  smiled ;  but  Luke  went  on,  not  perceiving 
him. 


302  DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

"  Ah !  we  cannot  find  out  for  him.  Nor  has  he, 
alas !  as  a  Protestant,  much  likelihood  of  finding  out 
for  himself.  In  our  holy  church  he  would  have  been 
compelled  to  discriminate  his  faults  by  methodic  self- 
examination,  and  lay  them  one  by  one  before  his 
priest  for  advice  and  pardon,  and  so  start  a  new  and 
free  man  once  more." 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  Lancelot  with  a  smile, 
"  that  he  who  will  not  confess  his  faults  either  to 
God  or  to  himself,  would  confess  them  to  man  1  And 
would  his  priest  honestly  tell  him  what  he  really 
wants  to  know  ?  which  sin  of  his  has  called  down  this 
so-called  judgment  1  It  would  be  imputed,  I  suppose, 
to  some  vague  generality,  to  inattention  to  religious 
duties,  to  idolatry  of  the  world,  and  so  forth.  But 
a  Romish  priest  would  be  the  last  person,  I  should 
think,  who  could  tell  him  fairly,  in  the  present  case, 
the  cause  of  his  affliction ;  and  I  question  whether 
he  would  give  a  patient  hearing  to  any  one  who  told 
it  him." 

"  How  so  1  Though,  indeed,  I  have  remarked  that 
people  are  perfectly  willing  to  be  told  they  are  miser- 
able sinners,  and  to  confess  themselves  such,  in  a 
general  way,  but  if  the  preacher  once  begins  to  specify, 
to  fix  on  any  particular  act  or  habit,  he  is  accused  of 
personality  or  uncharitableness ;  his  hearers  are  ready 
to  confess  guilty  to  any  sin  but  the  very  one  with 
which  he  charges  them.  But,  surely,  this  is  just 
what  I  am  urging  against  you  Protestants — just  what 
the  Catholic  use  of  confession  obviates." 


DEUS  E  MACHINi.  303 

"  Attempts  to  do  so,  you  mean  ! "  answered  Lance- 
lot. "But  what  if  your  religion  preaches  formally 
that  which  only  remains  in  our  religion  as  a  fast-dying 
superstition  1 — That  those  judgments  of  God,  as  you 
call  them,  are  not  judgments  at  all  in  any  fair  use  of 
the  Avord,  but  capricious  acts  of  punishment  on  the 
part  of  Heaven,  which  have  no  more  reference  to  the 
fault  which  provokes  them,  than  if  you  cut  off'  a  man's 
finger  because  he  made  a  bad  use  of  his  tongue.  That 
is  part,  but  only  a  part,  of  what  I  meant  just  now, 
by  saying  that  people  represent  God  as  capricious, 
proud,  revengeful" 

"  But  do  not  Protestants  themselves  confess  that 
our  sins  provoke  God's  anger?" 

"  Your  common  creed,  when  it  talks  rightly  of 
God  as  one  'who  has  no  passions/  ought  to  make  you 
speak  more  reverently  of  the  possibility  of  any  act 
of  ours  disturbing  the  everlasting  equanimity  of  the 
absolute  Love.  Why  will  men  so  often  impute  to  God 
the  miseries  which  they  bring  upon  themselves?" 

"  Because,  I  suppose,  their  pride  makes  them  more 
willing  to  confess  themselves  sinners  than  fools." 

"  Right,  my  friend ;  they  will  not  remember  that 
it  is  of  '  their  pleasant  vices  that  God  makes  whips  to 
scourge  them.'  Oh,  I  at  least  have  felt  the  deep 
wisdom  of  that  saying  of  Wilhelm  Meister's  harper, 
that  it  is 

"  '  Voices  from  the  depth  of  Nature  borne 
"Which  woe  upon  the  guilty  head  proclaim. ' 

Of  nature — of  those  eternal  laws  of  hers  which  we 


304  DEUS  E  MACHIXA. 

daily  break.  Yes !  it  is  not  because  God's  temper 
changes,  but  Ixjcause  God's  universe  is  unchangeable, 
that  such  as  I,  such  as  your  poor  father,  having  sown 
the  wind,  must  reap  the  whirlwind.  I  have  fed  my 
self-esteem  with  luxuries  and  not  with  virtue,  and, 
losing  them,  have  nothing  left  He  has  sold  himself 
to  a  system  which  is  its  own  punishment  And  yet 
the  last  place  in  which  he  will  look  for  the  cause  of 
his  misery  is  in  that  very  money-mongering  to  which 
he  now  clings  as  frantically  as  ever.  But  so  it  is 
throughout  the  world.  Only  look  down  over  that 
bridge -parapet,  at  that  huge  black -mouthed  sewer, 
vomiting  its  pestilential  riches  across  the  mud.  There 
it  runs,  and  will  run,  hurrying  to  the  sea  vast  stores 
of  wealth,  elaborated  by  Nature's  chemistry  into  the 
ready  materials  of  food ;  which  proclaim,  too,  by 
their  own  foul  smell,  God's  will  that  they  should  be 
buried  out  of  sight  in  the  fruitful  all -regenerating 
grave  of  earth :  there  it  runs,  turning  them  all  into 
the  seeds  of  pestilence,  filth,  and  drunkenness. — And 
then,  when  it  obeys  the  laws  which  we  despise,  and 
the  pestilence  is  come  at  last,  men  will  pray  against 
it,  and  confess  it  to  be  'a  judgment  for  their  sins;' 
but  if  you  ask  irluit  sin,  people  will  talk  about  'les 
voiles  d'airain,'  as  Fourier  says,  and  tell  you  that  it 
is  presumptuous  to  pry  into  God's  secret  counsels, 
unless,  perhaps,  some  fanatic  should  inform  you  that 
the  cholera  has  been  drawn  down  on  the  poor  by  the 
endowment  of  Maynooth  by  the  rich." 

"It  is  most  fearful,  indeed,  to  think  that  those 


DEUS  E  MACHINA.  305 

diseases  should  be  confined  to  the  poor — that  a  man 
should  be  exposed  to  cholera,  typhus,  and  a  host  of 
attendant  diseases,  simply  because  he  is  born  into  the 
world  an  artisan ;  while  the  rich  by  the  mere  fact  of 
money,  are  exempt  from  such  curses,  except  when  they 
come  in  contact  with  those  whom  they  call  on  Sunday 
'their  brethren,'  and  on  week  days  the  'masses.'" 

"  Thank  Heaven  that  you  do  see  that, — that  in  a 
country  calling  itself  civilised  and  Christian,  pestilence 
should  be  the  peculiar  heritage  of  the  poor !  It  is 
past  all  comment." 

"And  yet  are  not  these  pestilences  a  judgment, 
even  on  them,  for  their  dirt  and  profligacy?" 

"And  how  should  they  be  clean  without  water? 
And  how  can  you  wonder  if  their  appetites,  sickened 
with  filth  and  self-disgust,  crave  after  the  gin-shop  for 
temporary  strength,  and  then  for  temporary  forgetful- 
ness  ?  Every  London  doctor  knows  that  I  speak  the 
truth ;  would  that  every  London  preacher  would  tell 
that  truth  from  his  pulpit ! " 

"  Then  would  you  too  say,  that  God  punishes  one 
class  for  the  sins  of  another?" 

"  Some  would  say,"  answered  Lancelot,  half  aside, 
"  that  he  may  be  punishing  them  for  not  demanding 
their  right  to  live  like  human  beings,  to  all  those 
social  circumstances  which  shall  not  make  their 
children's  life  one  long  disease.  But  are  not  these 
pestilences  a  judgment  on  the  rich,  too,  in  the  truest 
sense  of  the  word  ?  Are  they  not  the  broad,  unmis- 
takable seal  to  God's  opinion  of  a  state  of  society 

X  Y. 


306  DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

which  confesses  its  economic  relations  to  be  so  utterly 
rotten  and  confused,  that  it  actually  cannot  afford  to 
save  yearly  millions  of  pounds'  worth  of  the  materials 
of  food,  not  to  mention  thousands  of  human  lives? 
Is  not  every  man  who  allows  such  things  hastening 
the  ruin  of  the  society  in  which  he  lives,  by  helping 
to  foster  the  indignation  and  fury  of  its  victims? 
Look  at  that  group  of  stunted,  haggard  artisans,  who 
are  passing  us.  What  if  one  day  they  should  call  to 
account  the  landlords  whose  covetousness  and  ignor- 
ance make  their  dwellings  hells  on  earth  1" 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  artist's  house. 

Luke  refused  to  enter.  ..."  He  had  done  with 
this  world,  and  the  painters  of  this  world."  .  .  .  And 
with  a  tearful  last  farewell,  he  tunied  away  up  the 
street,  leaving  Lancelot  to  gaze  at  his  slow,  painful 
steps,  and  abject,  earth-fixed  mien. 

"Ah!"  thought  Lancelot,  "here  is  the  end  of 
your  anthropology !  At  first,  your  ideal  man  is  an 
angel  But  your  angel  is  merely  an  unsexed  woman ; 
and  so  you  are  forced  to  go  back  to  the  humanity 
after  all — but  to  a  woman,  not  a  man  1  And  this,  in 
the  nineteenth  century,  when  men  are  telling  us  that 
the  poetic  and  enthusiastic  have  become  impossible, 
and  that  the  only  possible  state  of  the  world  hence- 
forward will  )je  a  universal  good- humoured  hive,  of 
the  Franklin-Benthamite  religion  ...  a  vast  prosaic 
Cockaigne  of  steam  mills  for  grinding  sausages — for 
those  who  can  get  at  them.  And  all  the  while,  in 
spite  of  all  Manchester  schools,  and  high  and  dry 


DEUS  E  MACHINA.  307 

orthodox  schools,  here  are  the  strangest  phantasms, 
new  and  old,  sane  and  insane,  starting  up  suddenly 
into  live  practical  power,  to  give  their  prosaic  theories 
the  lie — Popish  conversions,  Mormonisms,  Mesmer- 
isms, Californias,  Continental  revolutions,  Paris  days 
of  June.  ...  Ye  hypocrites  !  ye  can  discern  the  face 
of  the  sky,  and  yet  ye  cannot  discern  the  signs  of  this 
time!" 

He  was  ushered  upstairs  to  the  door  of  his  studio, 
at  which  he  knocked,  and  was  answered  by  a  loud 
"Come  in."  Lancelot  heard  a  rustle  as  he  entered, 
and  caught  sight  of  a  most  charming  little  white  foot 
retreating  hastily  through  the  folding-doors  into  the 
inner  room. 

The  artist,  who  was  seated  at  his  easel,  held  up  his 
brush  as  a  signal  of  silence,  and  did  not  even  raise 
his  eyes  till  he  had  finished  the  touches  on  which  he 
was  engaged. 

"And  now — what  do  I  see ! — the  last  man  I  should 
have  expected  !  I  thought  you  were  far  down  in  the 
country.  And  what  brings  you  to  me  with  such 
serious  and  business-like  looks?" 

"  I  am  a  penniless  youth " 

"What?" 

"  Ruined  to  my  last  shilling,  and  I  want  to  turn 
artist." 

"  Oh,  ye  gracious  powers  !  Come  to  my  arms, 
brother  at  last  with  me  in  the  holy  order  of  those 
who  must  work  or  starve.  Long  have  I  wept  in 
secret  over  the  pernicious  fulness  of  your  purse  ! " 


308  DEUS  E  MACHINA, 

"Dry  your  tears,  then,  now,"  said  Lancelot,  "for 
I  neither  have  ten  pounds  in  the  world,  nor  intend  to 
have  till  I  can  earn  them." 

"Artist!"  ran  on  Mellot;  "ah!  you  shall  be  an 
artist,  indeed  !  You  shall  stay  with  me  and  become 
the  English* Michael  Angelo;  or,  if  you  are  fool 
enough,  go  to  Rome,  and  utterly  eclipse  Overbeck, 
and  throw  Schadow  for  ever  into  the  shade." 

"I  fine  you  a  supper,"  said  Lancelot,  "for  that 
execrable  attempt  at  a  pun." 

"  Agreed  !  Here,  Sabina,  send  to  Covent  Garden 
for  huge  nosegays,  and  get  out  the  best  bottle  of 
Burgundy.  We  will  pass  an  evening  worthy  of 
Horace,  and  with  garlands  and  libations  honour  the 
muse  of  painting." 

"  Luxurious  dog ! "  said  Lancelot,  "  with  all  your 
cant  about  porerty." 

As  ho  spoke,  the  folding-doors  opened,  and  an  ex- 
quisite little  brunette  danced  in  from  the  inner  room, 
in  which,  by-the-bye,  had  been  going  on  all  the  while 
a  suspicious  rustling,  as  of  garments  hastily  arranged. 
She  was  dressed  gracefully  in  a  loose  French  morning- 
gown,  down  which  Lancelot's  eye  glanced  towards  the 
little  foot,  which,  however,  was  now  hidden  in  a  tiny 
velvet  slipper.  The  artist's  wife  was  a  real  beauty, 
though  without  a  single  i>erfect  feature,  except  a  most 
delicious  little  mouth,  a  skin  like  velvet,  ami  clear 
brown  eyes,  from  which  beamed  earnest  simplicity 
and  arch  good  humour.  She  darted  forward  to  her 
husband's  friend,  while  her  rippling  brown  hair,  fan- 


DEUS  E  MACHINA.  309 

tastically  arranged,  fluttered  about  her  neck,  and  seiz- 
ing Lancelot's  hands  successively  in  both  of  hers, 
broke  out  in  an  accent  prettily  tinged  with  French, — 

"  Charming  ! — delightful !  And  so  you  are  really 
going  to  turn  painter !  And  I  have  longed  so  to  be 
introduced  to  you !  Claude  has  been  raving  about 
you  these  two  years ;  you  already  seem  to  me  the  old- 
est friend  in  the  world.  You  must  not  go  to  Rome. 
We  shall  keep  you,  Mr.  Lancelot ;  positively  you  must 
come  and  live  with  us — we  shall  be  the  happiest  trio 
in  London.  I  will  make  you  so  comfortable :  you 
must  let  me  cater  for  you — cook  for  you." 

"And  be  my  study  sometimes?"  said  Lancelot, 
smiling. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  blushing,  and  shaking  her  pretty 
little  fist  at  Claude,  "  that  madcap !  how  he  has 
betrayed  me !  When  he  is  at  his  easel,  he  is  so  in 
the  seventh  heaven,  that  he  sees  nothing,  thinks  of 
nothing,  but  his  own  dreams." 

At  this  moment  a  heavy  step  sounded  on  the  stairs, 
the  door  opened,  and  there  entered,  to  Lancelot's  as- 
tonishment, the  stranger  who  had  just  puzzled  him  so 
much  at  his  uncle's. 

Claude  rose  reverentially,  and  came  forward,  but 
Sabina  was  beforehand  with  him,  and  running  up  to 
her  visitor,  kissed  his  hand  again  and  again,  almost 
kneeling  to  him. 

"The  dear  master!"  she  cried;  "what  a  delight- 
ful surprise !  we  have  not  seen  you  this  fortnight  past, 
and  gave  you  up  for  lost." 


310  DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

"Where  do  yon  come  from,  my  dear  master?" 
asked  Claude. 

"From  going  to  and  fro  in  the  earth,  and  from 
walking  up  and  down  in  it,"  answered  he,  smiling, 
and  laying  his  finger  on  his  lips,  "my  dear  pupils. 
And  you  are  both  well  and  happy  ?" 

"  Perfectly,  and  doubly  delighted  at  your  presence 
to-day,  for  your  advice  will  come  in  a  providential 
moment  for  my  friend  here." 

"Ah!"  said  the  strange  man,  "well  met  once  more! 
So  you  are  going  to  turn  painter?" 

He  bent  a  severe  and  searching  look  on  Lance- 
lot 

"You  have  a  painter's  face,  young  man,"  he  said ; 
"go  on  and  prosper.  *  What  branch  of  art  do  you 
intend  to  study?" 

"The  ancient  Italian  painters,  as  my  first  step." 

"Ancient?  it  is  not  four  hundred  years  since 
Perugino  died  But  I  should  suppose  you  do  not 
intend  to  ignore  classic  art  ?" 

"You  have  divined  rightly.  I  wish  in  the  study 
of  the  antique,  to  arrive  at  the  primeval  laws  of  un- 
f alien  human  beauty." 

"  Were  Phidias  and  Praxiteles,  then,  so  primeval  ? 
the  world  had  lasted  many  a  thousand  years  before 
their  turn  came.  If  you  intend  to  begin  at  the  be- 
ginning, why  not  go  back  at  once  to  the  Garden  of 
Eden,  and  there  study  the  true  antique  ?" 

"  If  there  were  but  any  relics  of  it/'  said  Lancelot, 
puzzled,  and  laughing. 


DEUS  E  MACHINA.  311 

"  You  would  find  it  very  near  you,  young  man,  if 
you  had  but  eyes  to  see  it" 

Claude  Mellot  laughed  significantly,  and  Sabina 
clapped  her  little  hands. 

"  Yet  till  you  take  him  with  you,  master,  and  show 
it  to  him,  he  must  needs  be  content  with  the  Eoyal 
Academy  and  the  Elgin  marbles." 

"But  to  what  branch  of  painting,  pray,"  said  the 
master  to  Lancelot,  "will  you  apply  your  knowledge 
of  the  antique?  'Will  you,  like  this  foolish  fellow 
here"  (with  a  kindly  glance  at  Claude),  "fritter  your- 
self away  on  Nymphs  and  Venuses,  in  which  neither 
he  nor  any  one  else  believes?" 

"  Historic  art,  as  the  highest,"  answered  Lancelot, 
"is  my  ambition." 

"It  is  well  to  aim  at  the  highest,  but  only  when 
it  is  possible  for  us.  And  how  can  such  a  school  exist 
in  England  now  ?  You  English  must  learn  to  under- 
stand your  own  history  before  you  paint  it.  Rather 
follow  in  the  steps  of  your  Turners,  and  Landseers, 
and  Stanfields,  and  Creswicks,  and  add  your  contribu- 
tion to  the  present  noble  school  of  naturalist  painters. 
That  is  the  niche  in  the  temple  which  God  has  set  you 
English  to  fill  up  just  now.  These  men's  patient, 
reverent  faith  in  Nature  as  they  see  her,  their  know- 
ledge that  the  ideal  is  neither  to  be  invented  nor 
abstracted,  but  found  and  left  where  God  has  put 
it,  and  where  alone  it  can  be  represented,  in  actual 
and  individual  phenomena ; — in  these  lies  an  honest 
development  of  the  true  idea  of  Protestantism, 


312  1>EUS  E  MACHINA. 

which  is  paving  the  way  to  the  mesothetic  art  of  the 
future." 

"Glorious  !"  said  Sabina :  "not  a  single  word  that 
we  poor  creatures  can  understand  ! " 

But  our  hero,  who  always  took  a  virtuous  delight 
in  hearing  what  he  could  not  comprehend,  went  on  to 
question  the  orator. 

"What,  then,  is  the  true  idea  of  Protestantism  1" 
said  he. 

"  The  universal  symbolism  and  dignity  of  matter, 
whether  in  man  or  nature." 

"But  the  Puritans T 

"Were  inconsistent  with  themselves  and  with 
Protestantism,  and  therefore  God  would  not  allow 
them  to  proceed.  Yet  their  repudiation  of  all  art 
was  better  than  the  Judas-kiss  which  Romanism  be- 
stows on  it,  in  the  meagre  eclecticism  of  the  ancient 
religious  schools,  and  of  your  modern  Overbecks  and 
Pugins.  The  only  really  wholesome  designer  of  great 
power  whom  I  have  seen  in  Germany  is  Kaulbach ; 
and  perhaps  every  one  would  not  agree  with  my 
reasons  for  admiring  him,  in  this  whitewashed  age. 
But  you,  young  sir,  were  meant  for  better  things  than 
art  Many  young  geniuses  have  an  early  hankering, 
as  Goethe  had,  to  turn  painters.  It  seems  the  short- 
est and  easiest  method  of  embodying  their  concq>- 
tions  in  visible  form ;  but  they  get  wiser  afterwards, 
when  they  find  in  themselves  thoughts  that  cannot 
be  laid  uj>on  the  canvas.  Come  with  me,  I  like 
striking  while  the  iron  is  hot;  walk  with  mo  to- 


DEUS  E  MACHINi.  313 

wards  my  lodgings,  and  we  will  discuss  this  weighty 
matter." 

And  with  a  gay  farewell  to  the  adoring  little  Sabina, 
he  passed  an  iron  arm  through  Lancelot's,  and  marched 
him  down  into  the  street. 

Lancelot  was  surprised  and  almost  nettled  at  the 
sudden  influence  which  he  found  this  quaint  personage 
was  exerting  over  him.  But  he  had,  of  late,  tasted 
the  high  delight  of  feeling  himself  under  the  guidance 
of  a  superior  mind,  and  longed  to  enjoy  it  once  more. 
Perhaps  they  were  reminiscences  of  this  kind  which 
stirred  in  him  the  strange  fancy  of  a  connection,  almost 
of  a  likeness,  between  his  new  acquaintance  and  Arge- 
mone.  He  asked,  humbly  enough,  why  Art  was  to 
be  a  forbidden  path  to  him  ? 

"  Besides  you  are  an  Englishman,  and  a  man  of  un- 
common talent,  unless  your  physiognomy  belies  you ; 
and  one,  too,  for  whom  God  has  strange  things  in 
store,  or  He  would  not  have  so  suddenly  and  strangely 
overthrown  you." 

Lancelot  started.  He  remembered  that  Tregarva 
had  said  just  the  same  thing  to  him  that  very  morning, 
and  the  (to  him)  strange  coincidence  sank  deep  into 
his  heart. 

"  You  must  be  a  politician,"  the  stranger  went  on. 
"  You  are  bound  to  it  as  your  birthright.  It  has  been 
England's  privilege  hitherto  to  solve  all  political  ques- 
tions as  they  arise  for  the  rest  of  the  world ;  it  is  her 
duty  now.  Here,  or  nowhere,  must  the  solution  be 
attempted  of  those  social  problems  which  are  con- 


314  DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

vulsing  more  and  more  all  Christendom.  She  can- 
not afford  to  waste  brains  like  yours,  while  in  thou- 
sands of  reeking  alleys,  such  as  that  one  opposite 
us,  heathens  and  savages  are  demanding  the  rights 
of  citizenship.  Whether  they  be  right  or  wrong,  is 
what  you,  and  such  as  you,  have  to  find  out  at  tliis 
day." 

Silent  and  thoughtful,  Lancelot  walked  on  by  his 
side. 

"  What  is  become  of  your  friend  Tregarva  ?  I  met 
him  this  morning  after  he  parted  from  you,  and  had 
some  talk  with  him.  I  was  sorely  minded  to  enlist 
him.  Perhaps  I  shall  ;  in  the  meantime,  I  shall  busy 
myself  with  you." 

"In  what  way,"  asked  Lancelot,  "most  strange 
sir,  of  whose  name,  much  less  of  whose  occupation,  I 
can  gain  no  tidings." 

"  My  name  for  the  time  being  is  BarnakilL  And 
as  for  business,  as  it  is  your  English  fashion  to  call 
new  things  obstinately  by  old  names,  careless  whether 
they  apply  or  not,  you  may  consider  me  as  a  recruit- 
ing-sergeant ;  which  trade,  indeed,  I  follow,  though  I 
am  no  more  like  the  popular  red-coated  ones  than  your 
present  'glorious  constitution'  is  like  William  the 
Third's,  or  Overbeck's  high  art  like  Fra  Angelico's. 
Farewell !  When  I  want  you,  which  will  l>e  most 
likely  when  you  want  me,  I  shall  find  you  again." 

The  evening  was  passed,  as  Claude  had  promised, 
in  a  truly  Horatian  manner.  Sabina  was  most 
piquaute,  and  Claude  interspersed  his  genial  and 


DEUS  E  MACHINl.  315 

enthusiastic  eloquence  with  various  wise  saws  of  "  the 
prophet." 

"But  why  on  earth,"  quoth  Lancelot,  at  last,  "do 
you  call  him  a  prophet ! " 

"  Because  he  is  one ;  it's  his  business,  his  calling. 
He  gets  his  living  thereby,  as  the  showman  did  by 
his  elephant." 

"  But  what  does  he  foretell  ?" 

"  Oh,  son  of  the  earth !  And  you  went  to  Cam- 
bridge— are  reported  to  have  gone  in  for  the  thing, 
or  phantom,  called  the  tripos,  and  taken  a  first  class  ! 
.  .  .  Did  you  ever  look  out  the  word  '  prophetes '  in 
Liddell  and  Scott?" 

"  Why,  what  do  you  know  about  Liddell  and  Scott ! " 

"Nothing,  thank  goodness;  I  never  had  time  to 
waste  over  the  crooked  letters.  But  I  have  heard 
say  that  prophetes  means,  not  a  foreteller,  but  an 
out-teller — one  who  declares  the  will  of  a  deity,  and 
interprets  his  oracles.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"Undeniably." 

"And  that  he  became  a  foreteller  among  heathens 
at  least — as  I  consider,  among  all  peoples  whatsoever 
— because  knowing  the  real  bearing  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  what  was  happening,  he  could  discern  the 
signs  of  the  times,  and  so  had  what  the  world  calls  a 
shrewd  guess — what  I,  like  a  Pantheist  as  I  am  deno- 
minated, should  call  a  divine  and  inspired  foresight — 
of  what  was  going  to  happen." 

"A  new  notion,  and  a  pleasant  one,  for  it  looks 
something  like  a  law." 


316  DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

"  I  am  no  scollard,  as  they  would  say  in  Whitford, 
you  know ;  but  it  has  often  struck  nie,  that  if  folks 
would  but  believe  that  the  Apostles  talked  not  such 
very  bad  Greek,  and  had  some  slight  notion  of  the 
received  meaning  of  the  words  they  used,  and  of  the 
absurdity  of  using  the  same  terra  to  express  nineteen 
different  things,  the  New  Testament  would  be  found 
to  be  a  much  simpler  and  more  severely  philosophic 
book  than  '  Theologians '  (' Anthroposophists '  I  call 
them)  fancy." 

"  Where  on  earth  did  you  get  all  this  wisdom,  or 
foolishness  1" 

"  From  the  prophet,  a  fortnight  ago." 

"Who  is  this  prophet?    I  will  know." 

"Then  you  will  know  more  than  I  do.  Sabina — 
light  my  meerschaum,  there's  a  darling ;  it  will  taste 
the  sweeter  after  your  lips.  And  Claude  laid  his 
delicate  woman-like  limbs  upon  the  sofa,  and  looked 
the  very  picture  of  luxurious  nonchalance. 

"  What  is  he,  you  pitiless  wretch  ?" 

"  Fairest  Hebe,  fill  our  Prometheus  Vinctus 
another  glass  of  Burgundy,  and  find  your  guitar,  to 
silence  him." 

"  It  was  the  ocean  nymphs  who  came  to  comfort 
Prometheus  —  and  unsandalled,  too,  if  I  recollect 
right,"  said  Lancelot,  smiling  at  Sabina.  "Come, 
now,  if  he  will  not  tell  me,  perhaps  you  will  ?" 

Sabina  only  blushed,  and  laughed  mysteriously. 

"You  surely  are  intimate  with  him,  Claude? 
When  and  where  did  you  meet  him  first?" 


DEUS  E  MACHINl.  317 

"Seventeen  years  ago,  on  the  barricades  of  the 
three  days,  in  the  charming  little  pandemonium  called 
Paris,  he  picked  me  out  of  a  gutter,  a  boy  of  fifteen, 
with  a  musket -ball  through  my  body;  mended  me, 
and  sent  me  to  a  painter's  studio.  .  .  .  The  next 
sdjour  I  had  with  him  began  in  sight  of  the  Demawend. 
Sabina,  perhaps  you  might  like  to  relate  to  Mr.  Smith 
that  interview,  and  the  circumstances  under  which 
you  made  your  first  sketch  of  that  magnificent  and 
little-known  volcano  ?" 

Sabina  blushed  again — this  time  scarlet;  and,  to 
Lancelot's  astonishment,  pulled  off  her  slipper,  and 
brandishing  it  daintily,  uttered  some  unintelligible 
threat,  in  an  Oriental  language,  at  .the  laughing 
Claude. 

"  Why,  you  must  have  been  in  the  East  1" 

"  Why  not !  Do  you  think  that  figure  and  that 
walk  were  picked  up  in  stay -ridden,  toe -pinching 
England?  .  .  .  Ay,  in  the  East;  and  why  not  else- 
where ?  Do  you  think  I  g&t  my  knowledge  of  the 
human  figure  from  the  live -model  in  the  Royal 
Academy?" 

"I  certainly  have  always  had  my  doubts  of  it. 
You  are  the  only  man  I  know  who  can  paint  muscle 
in  motion." 

"  Because  I  am  almost  the  only  man  in  England 
who  has  ever  seen  it.  Artists  should  go  to  the  Can- 
nibal Islands  for  that.  .  .  .  J'ai  fait  le  grand  tour.  I 
should  not  wonder  if  the  prophet  made  you  take  it." 

"  That  would  be  very  much  as  I  chose." 


318  DEUS  E  MACHINA. 

"Or  otherwise." 

"  What  Jo  you  mean  ?" 

"  That  if  he  wills  you  to  go,  I  defy  you  to  stay. 
Eh,  Sabina!" 

"Well,  you  are  a  very  mysterious  pair, — and  a 
very  charming  one." 

"So  we  think  ourselves — as  to  the  charmingness. 
.  .  .  and  as  for  the  mystery.  .  .  .  '  Omnia  exeunt  in 
mysterium,'  says  somebody,  somewhere — or  if  ho 
don't,  ought  to,  seeing  that  it  is  so.  You  will  be  a 
mystery  some  day,  and  a  myth,  and  a  thousand  years 
hence,  pious  old  ladies  will  be  pulling  caps  as  to 
whether  you  were  a  saint  or  a  devil,  and  whether 
you  did  really  work  miracles  or  not,  as  corroborations 
of  your  ex-supra-lunar  illumination  on  social  ques- 
tions. .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  you  will  have  to  submit,  and 
see  Bogy,  and  enter  the  Eleusinian  mysteries.  Eh, 
Sabina ?" 

"  My  dear  Claude,  what  between  the  Burgundy  and 
your  usual  foolishness,  you  seem  very  much  inclined 
to  divulge  the  Eleusinian  mysteries." 

"  I  can't  well  do  that,  my  beauty,  seeing  that,  if 
you  recollect,  we  were  both  turned  back  at  the  vesti- 
bule, for  a  pair  of  naughty  children  as  we  are." 

f  "  Do  be  quiet !  and  let  me  enjoy,  for  once,  my 
woman's  right  to  the  last  word  ! " 

And  in  this  hopeful  state  of  mystification,  Lancelot 
went  home,  and  dreamt  of  Argcmone. 

"  His  uncle  would,  and,  indeed,  as  it  seemed,  could, 
give  him  very  little  information  on  the  question  which 


DEUS  E  MACHINi.  319 

had  so  excited  his  curiosity.  He  had  met  the  man 
in  India  many  years  before,  had  received  there  from 
him  most  important  kindnesses,  and  considered  him, 
from  experience,  of  oracular  wisdom.  He  seemed  to 
have  an  unlimited  command  of  money,  though  most 
frugal  in  his  private  habits;  visited  England  for  a 
short  time  every  few  years,  and  always  under  a  differ- 
ent appellation ;  but  as  for  his  real  name,  habitation, 
or  business,  here  or  at  home,  the  good  banker  knew 
nothing,  except  that  whenever  questioned  on  them, 
he  wandered  off  into  Pantagruelist  jokes,  and  ended 
in  Cloudland.  So  that  Lancelot  was  fain  to  give  up 
his  questions  and  content  himself  with  longing  for  the 
reappearance  of  this  inexplicable  sage. 


CHAPTER  XVT. 

ONCE  IN  A  WAY. 

A  FEW  mornings  afterwards,  Lancelot,  as  he  glanced 
his  eye  over  the  columns  of  Tlie  Times,  stopped  short 
at  the  beloved  name  of  Whitford.  To  his  disgust 
and  disappointment,  it  only  occurred  in  one  of  those 
miserable  cases,  now  of  weekly  occurrence,  of  con- 
cealing the  birth  of  a  child.  He  was  turning  from 
it,  when  he  saw  Bracebridge's  name.  Another  look 
sufficed  to  show  him  that  he  ought  to  go  at  once  to 
the  colonel,  who  had  returned  the  day  before  from 
Norway. 

A  few  minutes  brought  him  to  his  friend's  lodging, 
but  The  Times  had  arrived  there  before  him.  Brace- 
bridge  was  sitting  over  his  untested  breakfast,  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands. 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me,"  he  said,  without  looking 
up.  "  It  was  right  of  you  to  come — kind  of  you ;  but 
it  is  too  late." 

He  started,  and  looked  wildly  round  him,  as  if 
listening  for  some  sound  winch  he  expected,  and  thru 
laid  his  head  down  on  the  table.  Lancelot  turned  to 


ONCE  IN  A  WAY.  321 

"  No — do  not  leave  me  !  Not  alone,  for  God's 
sake,  not  alone  ! " 

Lancelot  sat  down.  There  was  a  fearful  alteration 
in  Bracebridge.  His  old  keen  self-confident  look  had 
vanished.  He  was  haggard,  life- weary,  shame-stricken, 
almost  abject.  His  limbs  looked  quite  shrunk  and 
powerless,  as  he  rested  his  head  on  the  table  before 
him,  and  murmured  incoherently  from  time  to  time, — 

"  My  own  child  !  And  I  never  shall  have  another ! 

No  second  chance  for  those  who Oh  Mary !  Mary  ! 

you  might  have  waited — you  might  have  trusted  me  ! 
And  why  should  you  ? — ay,  why,  indeed  ?  And  such 
a  pretty  baby,  too  ! — just  like  his  father !" 

Lancelot  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  My  dearest  Bracebridge,  the  evidence  proves  that 
the  child  was  born  dead." 

"They  lie!"  he  said,  fiercely,  starting  up.  "It 
cried  twice  after  it  was  born  ! " 

Lancelot  stood  horror-struck. 

"  I  heard  it  last  night,  and  the  night  before  that, 
and  the  night  before  that  again,  under  my  pillow, 
shrieking — stifling — two  little  squeaks,  like  a  caught 
hare ;  and  I  tore  the  pillows  off  it—  I  did ;  and  once 
I  saw  it,  and  it  had  beautiful  black  eyes — just  like  its 
father — just  like  a  little  miniature  that  used  to  lie  on 
my  mother's  table,  when  I  knelt  at  her  knee,  before 
they  sent  me  out  '  to  see  life,'  and  Eton,  and  the  army, 
and  Crockford's,  and  Newmarket,  and  fine  gentlemen, 
and  fine  ladies,  and  luxury,  and  flattery,  brought  me  to 
this  ?  Oh,  father  !  father  !  was  that  the  only  way  to 


322  ONCE  IN  A  WAY. 

make  a  gentleman  of  your  son  1 — There  it  is  again  ! 
Don't  you  hear  it  1 — under  the  sofa-cushions !  Tear 
them  off!  Curse  you  !  Save  it !" 

And,  with  a  fearful  oath,  the  wretched  man  sent 
Lancelot  staggering  across  the  room,  and  madly  tore 
up  the  cushions. 

A  long  postman's  knock  at  the  door. — He  suddenly 
rose  up  quite  collected. 

"  The  letter !  I  knew  it  would  come.  She  need 
not  have  written  it :  I  know  what  is  in  it." 

The  servant's  step  came  up  the  stairs.  Poor 
Bracebridge  turned  to  Lancelot  with  something  of 
his  own  stately  determination. 

"  I  must  be  alone  when  I  receive  this  letter.  Stay 
here."  And  with  compressed  lips  and  fixed  eyes  he 
stalked  out  at  the  door,  and  shut  it 

Lancelot  heard  him  stop ;  then  the  servant's  foot- 
steps down  the  stairs;  then  the  colonel's  treading, 
slowly  and  heavily,  went  step  by  step  up  to  the  room 
above.  He  shut  that  door  too.  A  dead  silence  fol- 
lowed. Lancelot  stood  in  fearful  suspense,  and  held 
his  breath  to  listea  Perhaps  he  had  fainted  ?  No, 
for  then  he  would  have  heard  a  fall.  Perhaps  he  had 
fallen  on  the  bed?  He  would  go  and  see.  No,  he 
would  wait  a  little  longer.  Perhaps  he  was  praying  ? 
He  had  told  Lancelot  to  pray  once — he  dared  not 
interrupt  him  now.  A  slight  stir — a  noise  as  of  an 
opening  box.  Thank  God,  he  was,  at  least,  alive ! 
Nonsense !  Why  should  he  not  be  alive  ?  What 
could  happen  to  him  ?  And  yet  he  knew  that  some- 


ONCE  IN  A  WAY.  323 

thing  was  going  to  happen.  The  silence  was  ominous 
— unbearable;  the  air  of  the  room  felt  heavy  and 
stifling,  as  if  a  thunder-storm  were  about  to  burst. 
He  longed  to  hear  the  man  raging  and  stamping. 
And  yet  he  could  not  connect  the  thought  of  one  so 
gay  and  full  of  gallant  life,  with  the  terrible  dread 
that  was  creeping  over  him — with  the  terrible  scene 
which  he  had  just  witnessed.  It  must  be  all  a  tem- 
porary excitement — a  mistake — a  hideous  dream, 
which  the  next  post  would  sweep  away.  He  would 
go  and  tell  him  so.  No,  he  could  not  stir.  His  limbs 
seemed  leaden,  his  feet  felt  rooted  to  the  ground,  as 
in  long  nightmare.  And  still  the  intolerable  silence 
brooded  overhead. 

What  broke  it1?  A  dull,  stifled  report,  as  of  a 
pistol  fired  against  the  ground;  a  heavy  fall;  and 
again  the  silence  of  death. 

He  rushed  upstairs.  A  corpse  lay  on  its  face  upon 
the  floor,  and  from  among  its  hair,  a  crimson  thread 
crept  slowly  across  the  carpet.  It  was  all  over.  He 
bent  over  the  head,  but  one  look  was  sufficient.  He 
did  not  try  to  lift  it  up. 

On  the  table  lay  the  fatal  letter.  Lancelot  knew 
that  he  had  a  right  to  read  it.  It  was  scrawled,  mis- 
spelt— but  there  were  no  tear-blots  on  the  paper  : — 

"  Sir — I  am  in  prison — and  where  are  you  ?  Cruel 
man !  Where  were  you  all  those  miserable  weeks, 
while  I  was  coming  nearer  and  nearer  to  my  shame  1 
Murdering  dumb  beasts  in  foreign  lands.  You  have 
murdered  more  than  them.  How  I  loved  you  once  ! 


324  ONCE  IN  A  WAY. 

How  I  hate  you  now !  But  I  have  my  revenge. 
Your  baby  cried  twice  after  it  teas  born  /" 

Lancelot  tore  the  letter  into  a  hundred  pieces,  and 
swallowed  them,  for  every  foot  in  the  house  was  on 
the  stairs. 

So  there  was  terror,  and  confusion,  and  running  in 
and  out:  but  there  were  no  wet  eyes  there  except 
those  of  Bracebridge's  groom,  who  threw  himself  on 
the  body,  and  would  not  stir.  And  then  there  was  a 
coroner's  inquest ;  and  it  came  out  in  the  evidence 
how  "the  deceased  had  been  for  several  days  very 
much. depressed,  and  had  talked  of  voices  and  appari- 
tions;" whereat  the  jury — as  twelve  honest,  good- 
natured  Christians  were  bound  to  do  —  returned  a 
verdict  of  temporary  insanity;  and  in  a  week  more 
the  penny-a-liners  grew  tired ;  and  the  world,  too, 
who  never  expects  anything,  not  even  French  revolu- 
tions, grew  tired  also  of  repeating, — "Dear  me  !  who 
would  have  expected  it?"  and  having  filled  up  the 
colonel's  place,  swaggered  on  as  usual,  arm-in-arm 
with  the  flesh  and  the  devil. 

Bracebridge's  death  had,  of  course,  a  great  effect 
on  Lancelot's  spirit  Not  in  the  way  of  warning, 
though — such  events  seldom  act  in  that  way,  on  the 
highest  as  well  as  on  the  lowest  minds.  After  all, 
your  "Rakes'  Progresses,"  and  "  Atheists'  Deathbeds," 
do  no  more  good  than  noble  George  Cruikshank's 
"  Bottle  "  will,  because  every  one  knows  that  they  are 
the  exception,  and  not  the  rule ;  that  the  Atheist 
generally  dies  with  a  conscience  as  comfortably  callous 


ONCE  IN  A  WAY.  325 

as  a  rhinoceros-hide ;  and  the  rake,  when  old  age  stops 
his  power  of  sinning,  becomes  generally  rather  more 
respectable  than  his  neighbours.  The  New  Testament 
deals  very  little  in  appeals  ad  terrorem ;  and  it  would 
be  well  if  some,  who  fancy  that  they  follow  it,  would 
do  the  same,  and  by  abstaining  from  making  "hell 
fire  "  the  chief  incentive  to  virtue,  cease  from  tempt- 
ing many  a  poor  fellow  to  enlist  on  the  devil's  side 
the  only  manly  feeling  he  has  left — personal  courage. 

But  yet  Lancelot  was  affected.  And  when,  on  the 
night  of  the  Colonel's  funeral,  he  opened,  at  hazard, 
Argemone's  Bible,  and  his  eyes  fell  on  the  passage 
which  tells  how  "  one  shall  be  taken  and  another  left," 
great  honest  tears  of  gratitude  dropped  upon  the  page ; 
and  he  fell  on  his  knees,  and  in  bitter  self-reproach 
thanked  the  new  found  Upper  Powers,  who,  as  he 
began  to  hope,  were  leading  him  not  in  vain, — that 
he  had  yet  a  life  before  him  wherein  to  play  the  man. 

And  now  he  felt  that  the  last  link  was  broken  be- 
tween him  and  all  his  late  frivolous  companions.  All 
had  deserted  him  in  his  ruin  but  this  one — and  he  was 
silent  in  the  grave.  And  now,  from  the  world  and 
all  its  toys  and  revelry,  he  was  parted  once  and  for 
ever ;  and  he  stood  alone  in  the  desert,  like  the  last 
Arab  of  a  plague -stricken  tribe,  looking  over  the 
wreck  of  ancient  cities,  across  barren  sands,  where 
far  rivers  gleamed  in  the  distance,  that  seemed  to 
beckon  him  away  into  other  climes,  other  hopes,  other 
duties.  Old  things  had  passed  way — when  would  all 
things  become  new  1 


326  ONCE  IN  A  WAY. 

Not  yet,  Lancelot  Thou  hast  still  one  selfish 
hope,  one  dream  of  bliss,  however  impossible,  yet  still 
cherished  Thou  art  a  changed  man — but  for  whose 
sake  ?  For  Argemone's.  Is  she  to  be  thy  god,  then  ? 
Art  thou  to  live  for  her,  or  for  the  sake  of  One  greater 
than  shel  All  thine  idols  are  broken — swiftly  the 
desert  sands  are  drifting  over  them,  and  covering 
them  in. — All  but  one — must  that,  too,  be  taken  from 
thee? 

One  morning  a  letter  was  put  into  Lancelot's  hands, 
bearing  the  Whitford  postmark.  Tremblingly  he  tore 
it  open.  It  contained  a  few  passionate  words  from 
Honoria.  Argemone  was  dying  of  typhus-fever,  and 
entreating  to  see  him  once  again ;  and  Honoria  had, 
with  some  difficulty,  as  she  hinted,  obtained  leavo 
from  her  parents  to  send  for  him.  His  last  bank-note 
carried  him  down  to  Whitford ;  and,  calm  and  deter- 
mined, as  one  who  feels  that  he  has  nothing  more  to 
lose  on  earth,  and  whose  "torment  must  henceforth 
become  his  element,"  he  entered  the  Priory  that 
evening. 

He  hardly  spoke  or  looked  at  a  soul ;  he  felt  that 
he  was  there  on  an  errand  which  none  understood ; 
that  ho  was  moving  towards  Argemone  through  a 
spiritual  world,  in  which  he  and  she  were  alone ;  that, 
in  his  utter  poverty  and  hopelessness,  ho  stood  above 
all  the  luxury,  even  above  all  the  sorrow,  around  him  ; 
that  she  belonged  to  him,  and  to  him  alone  ;  and  the 
broken-hearted  beggar  followed  the  weeping  Honoria 
towards  his  lady's  chamber,  with  the  step  and  bearing 


ONCE  IN  A  WAY.  327 

of  a  lord.  He  was  wrong;  there  were  pride  and 
fierceness  enough  in  his  heart,  mingled  with  that  sense 
of  nothingness  of  rank,  money,  chance  and  change, 
yea,  death  itself,  of  all  but  Love ; — mingled  even  with 
that  intense  belief  that  his  sorrows  were  but  his  just 
deserts,  which  now  possessed  all  his  soul.  And  in 
after  years  he  knew  that  he  was  wrong ;  but  so  he 
felt  at  the  time ;  and  even  then  the  strength  was  not 
all  of  earth  which  bore  him  manlike  through  that  hour. 

He  entered  the  room;  the  darkness,  the  silence, 
the  cool  scent  of  vinegar,  struck  a  shudder  through 
him.  The  squire  was  sitting,  half  idiotic  and  helpless, 
in  his  arm-chair.  His  face  lighted  up  as  Lancelot 
entered,  and  he  tried  to  hold  out  his  palsied  hand. 
Lancelot  did  not  see  him.  Mrs.  Lavington  moved 
proudly  and  primly  back  from  the  bed,  with  a  face 
that  seemed  to  say  through  its  tears,  "  I  at  least  am 
responsible  for  nothing  that  occurs  from  this  inter- 
view." Lancelot  did  not  see  her  either :  he  walked 
straight  up  towards  the  bed  as  if  he  were  treading  on 
his  own  ground.  His  heart  was  between  his  lips,  and 
yet  his  whole  soul  felt  as  dry  and  hard  as  some  burnt- 
out  volcano-crater. 

A  faint  voice — oh,  how  faint,  how  changed ! — 
called  him  from  within  the  closed  curtains. 

"  He  is  there  !  I  know  it  is  he !  Lancelot !  my 
Lancelot ! " 

Silently  still  he  drew  aside  the  curtain ;  the  light 
fell  full  upon  her  face.  What  a  sight !  Her  beautiful 
hair  cut  close,  a  ghastly  white  handkerchief  round  her 


.'*-*  ONCE  IN  A  WAY. 

head,  those  bright  eyes  sunk  and  lustreless,  those  ripe 
lips  baked,  and  black  and  drawn ;  her  thin  hand  finger- 
ing uneasily  the  coverlid. — It  was  too  much  for  him. 
He  shuddered  and  turned  his  face  away.  Quick- 
sighted  that  love  is,  even  to  the  last !  slight  as  the 
gesture  was,  she  saw  it  in  an  instant 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  infection  ?"  she  said,  faintly. 
"I  was  not" 

Lancelot  laughed  aloud,  as  men  will  at  strangest 
moments,  sprung  towards  her  with  open  arms,  and 
threw  himself  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed.  With 
sudden  strength  she  rose  upright,  and  clasped  him  in 
her  arms. 

"Once  more  !"  she  sighed,  in  a  whisper  to  herself, 
"Once  more  on  earth!"  And  the  room,  and  the 
spectators,  and  disease  itself  faded  from  around  them 
like  vain  dreams,  as  she  nestled  closer  and  closer  to 
him,  and  gazed  into  his  eyes,  and  passed  her  shrunken 
hand  over  his  cheeks,  and  toyed  with  his  hair,  and 
seemed  to  drink  in  magnetic  life  from  his  embrace. 

No  one  spoke  or  stirred.  They  felt  that  an  awful 
and  blessed  spirit  overshadowed  the  lovers,  and  were 
hushed,  as  if  in  the  sanctuary  of  God. 

Suddenly  again  she  raised  her  head  from  his  bosom, 
and  in  a  tone,  in  which  her  old  queenliness  mingled 
strangely  with  the  saddest  tenderness, — 

"All  of  you  go  away  now;  1  must  talk  to  my 
husband  alone." 

They  went,  leading  out  the  squire,  who  cast  puzzled 
glances  toward  the  pair,  and  murmured  to  himself 


ONCE  IN  A  WAY.  329 

that  "she  was  sure  to  get  well  now  Smith  was  come  : 
everything  went  right  when  he  was  in  the  way." 

So  they  were  left  alone. 

"  I  do  not  look  so  very  ugly,  my  darling,  do  I  ? 
Not  so  very  ugly  ?  though  they  have  cut  off  all  my 
poor  hair,  and  I  told  them  so  often  not !  But  I  kept 
a  lock  for  you ;"  and  feebly  she  drew  from  under  the 
pillow  a  long  auburn  tress,  and  tried  to  wreathe  it 
round  his  neck,  but  could  not,  and  sunk  back. 

Poor  fellow  !  he  could  bear  no  more.  He  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  burst  into  a  long  low  weeping. 

"  I  am  very  thirsty,  darling ;  reach  me No, 

I  will  drink  no  more,  except  from  your  dear  lips." 

He  lifted  up  his  head,  and  breathed  his  whole  soul 
upon  her  lips ;  his  tears  fell  on  her  closed  eyelids. 

"Weeping?  No. — You  must  not  cry.  See  how 
comfortable  I  am.  They  are  all  so  kind — soft  bed, 
cool  room,  fresh  air,  sweet  drinks,  sweet  scents.  Oh, 
so  different  from  that  room  ! " 

"  What  room  1 — my  own ! " 

"  Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you.  Sit  down — put  your 
arm  under  my  head — so.  When  I  am  on  your  bosom 
I  feel  so  strong.  God  !  let  me  last  to  tell  him  all. 
It  was  for  that  I  sent  for  him." 

And  then,  in  broken  words,  she  told  him  how  she 
had  gone  up  to  the  fever  patient  at  Ashy,  on  the  fatal 
night  on  which  Lancelot  had  last  seen  her.  Shudder- 
ing, she  hinted  at  the  horrible  filth  and  misery  she 
had  seen,  at  the  foul  scents  which  had  sickened  her. 
A  madness  of  remorse,  she  said,  had  seized  her.  She 


330  ONCE  IN  A  WAY. 

had  gone,  in  spite  of  her  disgust,  to  several  houses 
which  she  found  open.  There  were  worse  cottages 
there  than  even  her  father's ;  some  tradesmen  in  a 
neighbouring  town  had  been  allowed  to  run  up  a  set 
of  rack  rent  hovels.  —  Another  shudder  seized  her 
when  she  spoke  of  them  ;  and  from  that  point  in  her 
story  all  was  fitful,  broken,  like  the  images  of  a 
hideous  dream.  "  Every  instant  those  foul  memories 
were  defiling  her  nostrils.  A  horrible  loathing  had 
taken  possession  of  her,  recurring  from  time  to  time, 
till  it  ended  in  delirium  and  fever.  A  scent-fiend  was 
haunting  her  night  and  day,"  she  said.  "And  now 
the  curse  of  the  Lavingtons  had  truly  come  upon  her. 
To  perish  by  the  people  whom  they  made.  Their 
neglect,  cupidity,  oppression,  are  avenged  on  me  ! 
Why  not?  Have  I  not  wantoned  in  down  and  per- 
fumes, while  they,  by  whose  labour  my  luxuries  were 
bought,  were  pining  among  scents  and  sounds, — one 
day  of  which  would  have  driven  me  mad  !  And  then 
they  wonder  why  men  turn  Chartists!  There  are 
those  horrible  scents  again  !  Save  me  from  them ! 
Lancelot — darling !  Take  me  to  the  fresh  air !  I 
choke  !  I  am  festering  away  !  The  Nunpool !  Take 
all  the  water,  every  drop,  and  wash  Ashy  clean  again ! 
Make  a  great  fountain  in  it — beautiful  marble — to 
bubble  and  gurgle,  and  trickle  and  foam,  for  ever  and 
ever,  and  wash  away  the  sins  of  the  Lavingtons,  that 
the  little  rosy  children  may  play  round  it,  and  the 
poor  toil -bent  woman  may  wash — and  wash  —  and 
drink Water !  water !  I  am  dying  of  thirst ! " 


ONCE  IN  A  WAY.  331 

He  gave  her  water,  and  then  she  lay  back  and 
babbled  about  the  Nunpool  sweeping  "all  the  houses 
of  Ashy  into  one  beautiful  palace,  among  great  flower- 
gardens,  where  the  school  children  will  sit  and  sing 
such  merry  hymns,  and  never  struggle  with  great 
pails  of  water  up  the  hill  of  Ashy  any  more." 

"  You  will  do  it !  darling  !  Strong,  wise,  noble- 
hearted  that  you  are !  Why  do  you  look  at  me?  You 
will  be  rich  some  day.  You  will  own  land,  for  you 
are  worthy  to  own  it.  Oh  that  I  could  give  you 
Whitford !  No  !  It  was  mine  too  long — therefore  I 

die !  because  I Lord  Jesus  !  have  I  not  repented 

of  my  sin  ?" 

Then  she  grew  calm  once  more.  A  soft  smile 
crept  over  her  face,  as  it  grew  sharper  and  paler  every 
moment.  Faintly  she  sank  back  on  the  pillows,  and 
faintly  whispered  to  him  to  kneel  and  pray.  He 
obeyed  her  mechanically.  .  .  .  "No — not  for  me,  for 
them — for  them,  and  for  yourself — that  you  may  save 
them  whom  I  never  dreamt  that  I  was  bound  to 
save ! " 

And  he  knelt  and  prayed  .  .  .  what,  he  alone 
and  those  who  heard  his  prayer,  can  tell.  .  .  . 

When  he  lifted  up  his  head  at  last,  he  saw  that 
Argemone  lay  motionless.  For  a  moment  he  thought 
she  was  dead,  and  frantically  sprang  to  the  bell.  The 
family  rushed  in  with  the  physician.  She  gave  some 
faint  token  of  life,  but  none  of  consciousness.  The 


332  ONCE  IN  A  WAY. 

doctor  sighed,  and  said  that  her  end  was  near.  Lance- 
lot had  known  that  all  along. 

"  I  think,  sir,  you  had  better  leave  the  room,"  said 
Mrs.  Lavington ;  and  followed  him  into  the  passage. 

What  she  was  about  to  say  remained  unspoken ; 
for  Lancelot  seized  her  hand  in  spite  of  her,  with 
frantic  thanks  for  having  allowed  him  this  one  inter- 
view, and  entreaties  that  he  might  see  her  again,  if 
but  for  one  moment 

Mrs.  Lavington,  somewhat  more  softly  than  usual, 
said,  —  "That  the  result  of  this  visit  had  not  been 
such  as  to  make  a  second  desirable — that  she  had  no 
wish  to  disturb  her  daughter's  mind  at  such  a  moment 
with  eartlily  regrets." 

"Earthly  regrets!"  How  little  she  knew  what 
had  passed  there !  But  if  she  had  known,  would  she 
have  been  one  whit  softened  1  For,  indeed,  Arge- 
mone's  spirituality  was  not  in  her  mother's  language. 
And  yet  the  good  woman  had  prayed,  and  prayed,  and 
wept  bitter  tears,  by  her  daughter's  bedside,  day  after 
day;  but  she  had  never  heard  her  pronounce  the 
talismanic  formula  of  words,  necessary  in  her  eyes  to 
ensure  salvation  ;  and  so  she  was  almost  without  hope 
for  her.  Oh,  Bigotry !  Devil,  who  turnest  God's  love 
into  man's  curse !  are  not  human  hearts  hard  and 
blind  enough  of  themselves,  without  thy  cursed  help? 

For  one  moment  a  storm  of  unutterable  pride  and 
rage  convulsed  Lancelot — the  next  instant  love  con- 
quered ;  and  the  strong  proud  man  threw  himself  on 
his  knees  at  the  feet  of  the  woman  he  despised,  and 


ONCE  IN  A  WAT.  333 

with  wild  sobs  entreated  for  one  moment  more — one 
only ! 

At  that  instant  a  shriek  from  Honoria  resounded 
from  the  sick  chamber.  Lancelot  knew  what  it 
meant,  and  sprang  up,  as  men  do  when  shot  through 
the  heart. — In  a  moment  he  was  himself  again.  A 
new  life  had  begun  for  him — alone. 

"  You  will  not  need  to  grant  my  prayer,  madam," 
he  said,  calmly  :  "  Argemone  is  dead."  • 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH. 

LET  us  pass  over  the  period  of  dull,  stupefied  misery 
that  followed,  when  Lancelot  had  returned  to  his 
lonely  lodging,  and  the  excitement  of  his  feelings  had 
died  away.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  that  which 
could  not  be  separated  into  parts,  in  which  there  was 
no  foreground,  no  distance,  but  only  one  dead,  black, 
colourless  present  After  a  time,  however,  he  began 
to  find  that  fancies,  almost  ridiculously  trivial,  arrested 
and  absorbed  his  attention ;  even  as  when  our  eyes 
have  become  accustomed  to  darkness,  every  light- 
coloured  mote  shows  luminous  against  the  void  black- 
ness of  night  So  we  are  tempted  to  unseemly  frivol- 
ity in  churches,  and  at  funerals,  and  all  most  solemn 
moments;  and  so  Lancelot  found  his  imagination 
fluttering  back,  half  amused,  to  every  smallest  circum- 
stance of  the  last  few  weeks,  as  objects  of  mere 
curiosity,  and  found  with  astonishment  that  they  had 
lost  their  power  of  paining  him.  Just  as  victims  on 
the  rack  have  fallen,  it  is  said,  by  length  of  torture, 
into  insensibility,  and  even  calm  repose,  his  brain  had 
wrought  until  all  feeling  was  benumbed.  He 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.   335 

began  to  think  what  an  interesting  autobiography  his 
life  might  make ;  and  the  events  of  the  last  few  years 
began  to  arrange  themselves  in  a  most  attractive 
dramatic  form.  He  began  even  to  work  out  a  scene 
or  two,  and  where  "motives"  seemed  wanting,  to 
invent  them  here  and  there.  He  sat  thus  for  hours 
silent  over  his  fire,  playing  with  his  old  self,  as  though 
it  were  a  thing  which  did  not  belong  to  him — a  suit 
of  clothes  which  he  had  put  off,  and  which, 

"  For  that  it  was  too  rich  to  hang  by  the  wall, 
It  must  be  ripped," 

and  then  pieced  and  dizened  out  afresh  as  a  toy. 
And  then  again  he  started  away  from  his  own  thoughts, 
at  finding  himself  on  the  edge  of  that  very  gulf,  which, 
as  Mellot  had  lately  told  him,  Barnakill  denounced 
as  the  true  hell  of  genius,  where  Art  is  regarded  as 
an  end  and  not  a  means,  and  objects  are  interesting, 
not  in  as  far  as  they  form  our  spirits,  but  in  proportion 
as  they  can  be  shaped  into  effective  parts  of  some 
beautiful  whole.  But  whether  it  was  a  temptation  or 
none,  the  desire  recurred  to  him  again  and  again. 
He  even  attempted  to  write,  but  sickened  at  the  sight 
of  the  first  words.  He  turned  to  his  pencil,  and  tried 
to  represent  with  it  one  scene  at  least ;  and  with  the 
horrible  calmness  of  some  self-torturing  ascetic,  he  sat 
down  to  sketch  a  drawing  of  himself  and  Argemone 
on  her  dying  day,  with  her  head  upon  his  bosom  for 
the  last  time — and  then  tossed  it  angrily  into  the  fire, 
partly  because  he  felt  just  as  he  had  in  his  attempts 
to  write,  that  there  was  something  more  in  all  these 


336  THE  VALLEY  OF 

events  than  he  could  utter  by  pen  or  pencil,  than  he 
could  even  understand ;  principally  because  he  could 
not  arrange  the  attitudes  gracefully  enough.  And  now, 
in  front  of  the  stern  realities  of  sorrow  and  death,  ho 
began  to  see  a  meaning  in  another  mysterious  saying 
of  Barnakill's,  which  Mellot  was  continually  quoting, 
that  "  Art  was  never  Art  till  it  was  more  than  Art ; 
that  the  Finite  only  existed  as  a  body  of  the  Infinite, 
and  that  the  man  of  genius  must  first  know  the  In- 
finite, unless  he  wished  to  become  not  a  poet,  but  a 
maker  of  idols."  Still  ho  felt  in  himself  a  capability, 
nay,  an  infinite  longing  to  speak ;  though  what  he 
should  utter,  or  how — whether  as  poet,  social  theorist, 
preacher,  he  could  not  yet  decide.  Barnakill  had 
forbidden  him  painting,  and  though  he  hardly  knew 
why,  he  dared  not  disobey  him.  But  Argemone's 
dying  words  lay  on  him  as  a  divine  command  to 
labour.  All  his  doubts,  his  social  observations,  his 
dreams  of  the  beautiful  and  the  blissful,  his  intense 
perception  of  social  evils,  his  new-born  hope — faith  it 
could  not  yet  bo  called — in  a  ruler  and  deliverer  of  the 
world,  all  urged  him  on  to  labour  :  but  at  what  ?  He 
felt  as  if  he  were  the  demon  in  the  legend,  condemned 
to  twine  endless  ropes  of  sand.  The  world,  outside 
which  he  now  stood  for  good  and  evil,  seemed  to  him 
like  some  frantic  whirling  waltz ;  some  serried  strug- 
gling crowd,  which  rushed  past  him  in  aimless  confu- 
sion, without  allowing  him  time  or  opening  to  take  his 
place  among  their  ranks :  and  as  for  wings  to  rise 
above,  and  to  look  down  upon  the  uproar,  where  were 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         337 

they  1  His  melancholy  paralysed  him  more  and  more. 
He  was  too  listless  even  to  cater  for  his  daily  bread 
by  writing  his  articles  for  the  magazines.  Why  should 
he  ?  He  had  nothing  to  say.  Why  should  he  pour 
out  words  and  empty  sound,  and  add  one  more 
futility  to  the  herd  of  "prophets  that  had  become 
wind,  and  had  no  truth  in  them"  1  Those  who  could 
write  without  a  conscience,  without  an  object  except 
that  of  seeing  their  own  fine  words,  and  filling  their 
own  pockets — let  them  do  it :  for  his  part  he  would 
have  none  of  it  But  his  purse  was  empty,  and  so 
was  his  stomach ;  and  as  for  asking  assistance  of  his 
uncle,  it  was  returning  like  the  dog  to  his  vomit. 
So  one  day  he  settled  all  bills  with  his  last  shilling, 
tied  up  his  remaining  clothes  in  a  bundle,  and  stoutly 
stepped  forth  into  the  street  to  find  a  job — to  hold  a 
horse,  if  nothing  better  offered ;  when,  behold !  on 
the  threshold  he  met  Barnakill  himself. 

"Whither  away?"  said  that  strange  personage. 
"I  was  just  going  to  call  on  you." 

"  To  earn  my  bread  by  the  labour  of  my  hands. 
So  our  fathers  all  began." 

"  And  so  their  sons  must  all  end.  Do  you  want 
work?" 

"Yes,  if  you  have  any." 

"  Follow  me,  and  carry  a  trunk  home  from  a  shop 
to  my  lodgings." 

He  strode  off,  with  Lancelot  after  him ;  entered  a 
mathematical  instrument  maker's  shop  in  the  neigh- 
bouring street,  and  pointed  out  a  heavy  corded  case 


338  THE  VALLEY  OF 

to  Lancelot,  who,  with  the  assistance  of  the  shopman, 
got  it  on  his  shoulders ;  and  trudging  forth  through 
the  streets  after  his  employer,  who  walked  before  him 
silent  and  unregarding,  felt  himself  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  in  the  same  situation  as  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  out  of  every  thousand  of  Adam's  descend- 
ants, and  discovered  somewhat  to  his  satisfaction  that 
when  he  could  once  rid  his  mind  of  its  old  superstition 
that  every  one  was  looking  at  him,  it  mattered  very 
little  whether  the  burden  carried  were  a  deal  trunk 
or  a  Downing  Street  despatch-box. 

His  employer's  lodgings  were  in  St  Paul's  Church- 
yard. Lancelot  set  the  trunk  down  inside  the  door. 

"  What  do  you  charge  1" 

"Sixpence." 

Barnakill  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face,  gave  him 
the  sixpence,  went  in,  and  shut  the  door. 

Lancelot  wandered  down  the  street,  half  amused 
at  the  simple  test  which  had  just  been  applied  to  him, 
and  yet  sickened  with  disappointment ;  for  he  had 
cherished  a  mysterious  fancy  that  with  this  strange 
being  all  his  hopes  of  future  activity  were  bound  up. 
Tregarva's  month  was  nearly  over,  and  yet  no  tidings 
of  him  had  come.  Mellot  had  left  London  on  some 
mysterious  errand  of  the  prophet's,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  seemed  to  stand  utterly  alone.  He 
was  at  one  pole,  and  the  whole  universe  at  the  other. 
It  was  in  vain  to  tell  himself  that  his  own  act  had 
placed  liim  there ;  that  ho  had  friends  to  whom  he 
might  appeal  He  would  not,  ho  dare  not,  accept  out- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         339 

ward  help,  even  outward  friendship,  however  hearty 
and  sincere,  at  that  crisis  of  his  existence.  It  seemed 
a  desecration  of  its  awfulness  to  find  comfort  in  any- 
thing but  the  highest  and  the  deepest.  And  the 
glimpse  of  that  which  he  had  attained  seemed  to  have 
passed  away  from  him  again, — seemed  to  be  something 
which,  as  it  had  arisen  with  Argemone,  was  lost  with 
her  also, — one  speck  of  the  far  blue  sky  which  the 
rolling  clouds  had  covered  in  again.  As  he  passed 
under  the  shadow  of  the  huge  soot-blackened  cathe- 
dral, and  looked  at  its  grim  spiked  railings  and  closed 
doors,  it  seemed  to  him  a  symbol  of  the  spiritual 
world,  clouded  and  barred  from  him.  He  stopped 
and  looked  up,  and  tried  to  think.  The  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  lighted  up  in  clear  radiance  the  huge  cross 
on  the  summit.  Was  it  an  omen  ?  Lancelot  thought 
so ;  but  at  that  instant  he  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
and  looked  round.  It  was  that  strange  man  again. 

"  So  far  well,"  said  he.  "  You  are  making  a  better 
day's  work  than  you  fancy,  and  earning  more  wages. 
For  instance,  here  is  a  packet  for  you." 

Lancelot  seized  it,  trembling,  and  tore  it  open.  It 
was  directed  in  Honoria's  handwriting. 

"  Whence  had  you  this  Tl  said  he. 

"Through  Mellot,  through  whom  I  can  return 
your  answer,  if  one  be  needed." 

The  letter  was  significant  of  Honoria's  character. 
It  busied  itself  entirely  about  facts,  and  showed  the 
depth  of  her  sorrow  by  making  no  allusion  to  it. 
"Argemone,  as  Lancelot  was  probably  aware,  had 


340  THE  VALLEY  OF 

bequeathed  to  him  the  whole  of  her  own  fortune  at 
Mrs.  Lavington's  death,  and  had  directed  that  various 
precious  things  of  hers  should  be  delivered  over  to 
him  immediately.  Her  mother,  however,  kept  her 
chamber  under  lock  and  key,  and  refused  to  allow  an 
article  to  be  removed  from  its  accustomed  place.  It 
was  natural  in  the  first  burst  of  her  sorrow,  and 
Lancelot  would  pardon."  All  his  drawings  and  letters 
had  been,  by  Argemone's  desire,  placed  with  her  in 
her  coffin.  Honoria  had  been  only  able  to  obey  her  in 
sending  a  favourite  ring  of  hers,  and  with  it  the  last 
stanzas  which  she  had  composed  before  her  death  : — 

"  Twin  stars,  aloft  in  ether  clear, 
Around  each  other  roll  away, 
Within  one  common  atmosphere 

Of  their  own  mutual  light  and  day. 
41  And  myriad  happy  eyes  are  bent 

Upon  their  changeless  love  alway  ; 
As,  strengthened  by  their  one  intent, 
They  pour  the  flood  of  life  and  day, 
14  So  we,  through  this  world's  waning  night, 

Shall,  hand  in  hand,  pursue  our  way  ; 
Shed  round  us  order,  love,  and  light, 
And  shine  unto  the  perfect  day." 

The  precious  relic,  with  all  its  shattered  hopes, 
came  at  the  right  moment  to  soften  his  hard -worn 
heart  The  sight,  the  touch  of  it,  shot  like  an  electric 
spark  through  the  black  stifling  thunder-cloud  of  his 
soul,  and  dissolved  it  in  refreshing  showers  of  tears. 

Barnakill  led  him  gently  within  the  area  of  the 
railings,  where  he  might  conceal  his  emotion,  and  it 
was  but  a  few  seconds  before  Lancelot  had  recovered 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         341 

his  self -possession  and  followed  him  up  the  steps 
through  the  wicket  door. 

They  entered.  The  afternoon  service  was  proceed- 
ing. The  organ  droned  sadly  in  its  iron  cage  to  a 
few  musical  amateurs.  Some  nursery  maids  and 
foreign  sailors  stared  about  within  the  spiked  felon's 
dock  which  shut  off  the  body  of  the  cathedral,  and 
tried  in  vain  to  hear  what  was  going  on  inside  the 
choir.  As  a  wise  author — a  Protestant,  too — has 
lately  said,  "the  scanty  service  rattled  in  the  vast 
building,  like  a  dried  kernel  too  small  for  its  shell." 
The  place  breathed  imbecility,  and  unreality,  and 
sleepy  life-in-death,  while  the  whole  nineteenth  cen- 
tury went  roaring  on  its  way  outside.  And  as  Lance- 
lot thought,  though  only  as  a  dilettante,  of  old  St. 
Paul's,  the  morning  star  and  focal  beacon  of  England 
through  centuries  and  dynasties,  from  old  Augustine 
and  Mellitus,  up  to  those  Paul's  Cross  sermons  whose 
thunders  shook  thrones,  and  to  noble  Wren's  master- 
piece of  art,  he  asked,  "  Whither  all  this  ?  Coleridge's 
dictum,  that  a  cathedral  is  a  petrified  religion,  may 
be  taken  to  bear  more  meanings  than  one.  When 
will  life  return  to  this  cathedral  system  ?" 

"When  was  it  ever  a  living  system?"  answered 
the  other.  "  When  was  it  ever  anything  but  a  tran- 
sitionary  makeshift  since  the  dissolution  of  the  monas- 
teries V 

"Why,  then,  not  away  with  it  at  once?" 

"  You  English  have  not  done  with  it  yet.  At  all 
events,  it  is  keeping  your  cathedrals  rain -proof  for 


342  THE  VALLEY  OF 

you,  till  you  can  put  them  to  some  better  use  than 
now." 

"And  in  the  meantime?" 

"  In  the  meantime  there  is  life  enough  in  them ; 
life  that  will  wake  the  dead  some  day.  Do  you  hear 
what  those  choristers  are  chanting  now?" 

"  Not  I,"  said  Lancelot ;  "  nor  any  one  round  us,  I 
should  think"" 

"  That  is  our  own  fault,  after  all ;  for  we  were  not 
good  churchmen  enough  to  come  in  time  for  vespers." 

"  Are  you  a  churchman  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  thank  God.  There  may  be  other  churches 
than  those  of  Europe  or  Syria,  and  right  Catholic 
ones,  too.  But,  shall  I  tell  you  what  they  are  sing- 
ing? 'He  hath  put  down  the  mighty  from  their 
seat,  and  hath  exalted  the  humble  and  meek  He 
hath  filled  the  hungry  with  good  things,  and  the  rich 
He  hath  sent  empty  away.'  Is  there  no  life,  think 
you,  in  those  words,  spoken  here  every  afternoon  in 
the  name  of  God?" 

"By  hirelings,  who  neither  care  nor  under- 
stand  " 

"Hush.  Be  not  hasty  with  imputations  of  evil, 
within  walls  dedicated  to  and  preserved  by  the  All- 
good.  Even  should  the  speakers  forget  the  meaning 
of  their  own  words,  to  my  sense,  perhaps,  that  may 
just  now  leave  the  words  more  entirely  God's.  At 
all  events,  confess  that  whatever  accidental  husks 
may  have  clustered  round  it,  here  is  a  germ  of  Eternal 
Truth.  No,  I  dare  not  despair  of  you  English,  as 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         343 

long  as  I  hear  your  priesthood  forced  by  Providence, 
even  in  spite  of  themselves,  thus  to  speak  God's  words 
about  an  age  in  which  the  condition  of  the  poor,  and 
the  rights  and  duties  of  man,  are  becoming  the  rally- 
ing-point  for  all  thought  and  all  organisation." 

"  But  does  it  not  make  the  case  more  hopeless  that 
such  words  have  been  spoken  for  centuries,  and  no 
man  regards  them  ?" 

"  You  have  to  blame  for  that  the  people,  rather 
than  the  priest.  As  they  are,  so  will  he  be,  in  every 
age  and  country.  He  is  but  the  index  which  the 
changes  of  their  spiritual  state  move  up  and  down  the 
scale :  and  as  they  will  become  in  England  in  the 
next  half  century,  so  will  he  become  also." 

"  And  can  these  dry  bones  live  ?"  asked  Lancelot, 
scornfully. 

"Who  are  you  to  ask?  What  were  you  three 
months  ago?  for  I  know  well  your  story.  But  do 
you  remember  what  the  prophet  saw  in  the  Valley  of 
Vision  ?  How  first  that  those  same  dry  bones  shook 
and  clashed  together,  as  if  uneasy  because  they  were 
disorganised;  and  how  they  then  found  flesh  and 
stood  upright :  and  yet  there  was  no  life  in  them,  till 
at  last  the  Spirit  came  down  and  entered  into  them  1 
Surely  there  is  shaking  enough  among  the  bones 
now !  It  is  happening  to  the  body  of  your  England 
as  it  did  to  Adam's  after  he  was  made.  It  lay  on 
earth,  the  rabbis  say,  forty  days  before  the  breath  of 
life  was  put  into  it,  and  the  devil  came  and  kicked  it; 
and  it  sounded  hollow,  as  England  is  doing  now  ;  but 


344  THE  VALLEY  OF 

that  did  not  prevent  the  breath  of  life  coming  in  good 
time,  nor  will  it  in  England's  case." 

Lancelot  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled  face. 

"  You  must  not  speak  in  such  deep  parables  to  so 
young  a  learner." 

"  Is  my  parable  so  hard,  then  ?  Look  around  you 
and  see  what  is  the  characteristic  of  your  country  and 
of  your  generation  at  this  moment  What  a  yearning, 
what  an  expectation,  amid  infinite  falsehoods  and  con- 
fusions, of  some  nobler,  more  chivalrous,  more  god- 
like state !  Your  very  costermonger  trolls  out  his 
belief  that  'there's  a  good  time  coming,'  and  the 
hearts  of  gamins,  as  well  as  millenarians,  answer, 
'  True  !'  Is  not  that  a  clashing  among  the  dry  bones  ? 
And  as  for  flesh,  what  new  materials  are  springing 
up  among  you  every  month,  spiritual  and  physical, 
for  a  state  such  as  '  eye  hath  not  seen  nor  ear  heard  ?' 
— railroads,  electric  telegraphs,  associate -lodging- 
houses,  club-houses,  sanitary  reforms,  experimental 
schools,  chemical  agriculture,  a  matchless  school  of 
inductive  science,  an  equally  matchless  school  of 
naturalist  painters, — and  all  this  in  the  very  workshop 
of  the  world !  Look,  again,  at  the  healthy  craving 
after  religious  art  and  ceremonial, — the  strong  desire 
to  preserve  that  which  has  stood  the  test  of  time ; 
and  on  the  other  hand,  at  the  manful  resolution  of 
your  middle  classes  to  stand  or  fall  by  the  Bible 
alone, — to  admit  no  innovations  in  worship  which  are 
empty  of  instinctive  meaning.  Look  at  the  enormous 
amount  of  practical  benevolence  which  now  struggles 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         345 

in  vain  against  evil,  only  because  it  is  as  yet  private, 
desultory,  divided.  How  dare  you,  young  man,  de- 
spair of  your  own  nation,  while  its  nobles  can  produce 
a  Carlisle,  an  Ellesmere,  an  Ashley,  a  Robert  Gros- 
venor, — while  its  middle  classes  can  beget  a  Faraday, 
a  Stephenson,  a  Brooke,  an  Elizabeth  Fry1?  See,  I 
say,  what  a  chaos  of  noble  materials  is  here, — all  con- 
fused, it  is  true, — polarised,  jarring,  and  chaotic, — here 
bigotry,  there  self-will,  superstition,  sheer  Atheism 
often,  but  only  waiting  for  the  one  inspiring  Spirit  to 
organise,  and  unite,  and  consecrate  this  chaos  into 
the  noblest  polity  the  world  ever  saw  realised  !  What 
a  destiny  may  be  that  of  your  land,  if  you  have  but 
the  faith  to  see  your  own  honour !  Were  I  not  of 
my  own  country,  I  would  be  an  Englishman  this  day." 

"  And  what  is  your  country  ?"  asked  Lancelot.  "  It 
should  be  a  noble  one  which  breeds  such  men  as  you." 

The  stranger  smiled. 

"; Will  you  go  thither  with  me?" 

"Why  not?  I  long  for  travel,  and  truly  I  am  sick 
of  my  own  country.  When  the  Spirit  of  which  you 
speak,"  he  went  on,  bitterly,  "  shall  descend,  I  may 
return  ;  till  then  England  is  no  place  for  the  penni- 
less." 

"How  know  you  that  the  Spirit  is  not  even  now 
poured  out?  Must  your  English  Pharisees  and  Saddu- 
cees,  too,  have  signs  and  wonders  ere  they  believe? 
Will  man  never  know  that  'the  kingdom  of  God  comes 
not  by  observation'?  that  now,  as  ever,  His  promise 
stands  true, — '  Lo  !  I  am  with  you  alway  even  unto 


346  THE  VALLEY  OF 

the  end  of  the  world"?  How  many  inspired  hearts 
even  now  may  be  cherishing  in  secret  the  idea  which 
shall  reform  the  age,  and  fulfil  at  once  the  longings 
of  every  sect  and  rank  ?" 

"  Name  it  to  me,  then  !" 

"Who  can  name  it?  Who  can  even  see  it,  but 
those  who  are  like  Him  from  whom  it  comes  ?  Them 
a  long  and  stern  discipline  awaits.  Would  you  be  of 
them,  you  must,  like  the  Highest  who  ever  trod  this 
earth,  go  fasting  into  the  wilderness,  and,  among  the 
wild  beasts,  stand  alone  face  to  face  with  the  powers 
of  Nature." 

"  I  will  go  where  you  shall  bid  ma  I  will  turn 
shepherd  among  the  Scottish  mountains — live  as  an 
anchorite  in  the  solitudes  of  Dartmoor.  But  to  what 
purpose  1  I  have  listened  long  to  Nature's  voice,  but 
even  the  whispers  of  a  spiritual  presence  which  haunted 
my  childhood  have  died  away,  and  I  hear  nothing  in 
her  but  the  grinding  of  the  iron  wheels  of  mechanical 
necessity." 

"  Which  is  the  will  of  God  Henceforth  you  shall 
study,  not  Nature,  but  Him.  Yet  as  for  place — I  do 
not  like  your  English  primitive  formations,  where 
earth,  worn  out  with  struggling,  has  fallen  wearily 
asleep.  No,  you  shall  rather  come  to  Asia,  the  oldest 
and  yet  the  youngest  continent, — to  our  volcanic 
mountain  ranges,  where  her  bosom  still  heaves  with 
the  creative  energy  of  youth,  around  the  primeval 
cradle  of  the  most  ancient  race  of  men.  Then,  when 
you  have  learnt  the  wondrous  harmony  between  man 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         347 

and  his  dwelling-place,  I  will  lead  you  to  a  land  where 
you  shall  see  the  highest  spiritual  cultivation  in 
triumphant  contact  with  the  fiercest  energies  of 
matter ;  where  men  have  learnt  to  tame  and  use  alike 
the  volcano  and  the  human  heart,  where  the  body  and 
the  spirit,  the  beautiful  and  the  useful,  the  human 
and  the  divine,  are  no  longer  separate,  and  men  have 
embodied  to  themselves  on  earth  an  image  of  the  '  city 
not  made  with  hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens.'" 

"Where  is  this  land?"  said  Lancelot  eagerly. 

"Poor  human  nature  must  have  its  name  for 
everything.  You  have  heard  of  the  country  of  Pres- 
ter  John,  that  mysterious  Christian  empire,  rarely 
visited  by  European  eye  ?" 

"There  are  legends  of  two  such,"  said  Lancelot, 
"an  Ethiopian  and  an  Asiatic  one;  and  the  Ethiopian, 
if  we  are  to  believe  Colonel  Harris's  Journey  to 
Shoa,  is  a  sufficiently  miserable  failure." 

"  True ;  the  day  of  the  Chamitic  race  is  past ;  you 
will  not  say  the  same  of  our  Caucasian  empire.  To 
our  race  the  present  belongs, — to  England,  France, 
Germany,  America, — to  us.  Will  you  see  what  we 
have  done,  and,  perhaps,  bring  home,  after  long 
wanderings,  a  message  for  your  country  which  may 
help  to  unravel  the  tangled  web  of  this  strange  time?" 

"  I  will,"  said  Lancelot,  "  now,  this  moment  And 
yet,  no.  There  is  one  with  whom  I  have  promised 
to  share  all  future  weal  and  woe.  Without  him  I  can 
take  no  step." 

"Tregarva?" 


348  THE  VALLEY  OF 

"Yes — he.  What  made  you  guess  that  I  spoke 
of  him?" 

"  Mellot  told  me  of  him,  and  of  you,  too,  six  weeks 
ago.  He  is  now  gone  to  fetch  him  from  Manchester. 
I  cannot  trust  &im  here  in  England  yet.  The  country 
made  him  sad ;  London  has  made  him  mad ;  Man- 
chester may  make  him  bad.  It  is  too  fearful  a  trial 
even  for  his  faith.  I  must  take  him  with  us." 

"  What  interest  in  him? — not  to  say,  what  authority 
over  him — have  you?" 

"  The  same  which  I  have  over  you.  You  will 
come  with  me;  so  will  he.  It  is  my  business,  as 
my  name  signifies,  to  save  the  children  alive  whom 
European  society  leaves  carelessly  and  ignorantly  to 
die.  And  as  for  my  power,  I  come,"  said  he,  with  a 
smile,  "from  a  country  which  sends  no  one  on  its 
errands  without  first  thoroughly  satisfying  itself  as  to 
his  power  of  fulfilling  them." 

"If  he  goes,  I  go  with  you." 

"And  he  will  go.  And  yet,  think  what  you  do. 
It  is  a  fearful  journey.  They  who  travel  it,  even  as 
they  came  naked  out  of  their  mother's  womb — even 
as  they  return  thither,  and  carry  nothing  with  them 
of  all  which  they  have  gotten  in  this  life,  so  must 
those  who  travel  to  my  land." 

"What?  Tregarva?  Is  he,  too,  to  give  up  all? 
I  had  thought  that  I  saw  in  him  a  precious  possession, 
one  for  which  I  would  barter  all  my  scholarship,  my 
talents, — ay — my  life  itself." 

"  A  possession  worth  your  life  ?    What  then  ?" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         349 

"Faith  in  an  unseen  God." 

"Ask  him  whether  he  would  call  that  a  possession 
— his  own  in  any  sense  V 

"  He  would  call  it  a  revelation  to  him." 

"That  is,  a  taking  of  the  veil  from  something 
which  was  behind  the  veil  already." 

"Yes." 

"  And  which  may  therefore  just  as  really  be  behind 
the  veil  in  other  cases  without  its  presence  being 
suspected." 

"Certainly." 

"In  what  sense,  now,  is  that  a  possession?  Do 
you  possess  the  sun  because  you  see  it  1  Did  Herschel 
create  Uranus  by  discovering  it ;  or  even  increase,  by 
an  atom,  its  attraction  on  one  particle  of  his  own 
body?" 

"Whither  is  all  this  tending?" 

"Hither.  Tregarva  does  not  possess  his  Father 
and  his  Lord ;  he  is  possessed  by  them." 

"  But  he  would  say — and  I  should  believe  him — 
that  he  has  seen  and  known  them,  not  with  his  bodily 
eyes,  but  with  his  soul,  heart,  imagination — call  it 
what  you  will.  All  I  know  is,  that  between  him  and 
me  there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed." 

"  What !  seen  and  known  them  utterly  ?  compre- 
hended them?  Are  they  not  infinite,  incomprehen- 
sible? Can  the  less  comprehend  the  greater?" 

"  He  knows,  at  least,  enough  of  them  to  make  him 
what  I  am  not." 

"That  is,  He  knows  something  of   them.     And 


350  THE  VALLEY  OP 

may  not  you  know  something  of  them  also  ? — enough 
to  make  you  what  he  is  not  ?" 

Lancelot  shook  his  head  in  silence. 

"  Suppose  that  you  had  met  and  spoken  with  your 
father,  and  loved  him  when  you  saw  him,  and  yet 
were  not  aware  of  the  relation  in  which  you  stood  to 
him,  still  you  would  know  him?" 

"Not  the  most  important  thing  of  all — that  he 
was  my  father." 

"Is  that  the  most  important  thing?  Is  it  not 
more  important  that  he  should  know  that  you  were 
his  son  ?  That  he  should  support,  guide,  educate  you, 
even  though  unseen?  Do  you  not  know  that  some 
one  has  been  doing  that?" 

"That  I  have  been  supported,  guided,  educated, 
I  know  full  well ;  but  by  whom  I  know  not  And 
I  know,  too,  that  I  have  been  punished.  And  there- 
fore— therefore  I  cannot  free  the  thought  of  a  Him — 
of  a  Person — only  of  a  Destiny,  of  Laws  and  Powers, 
which  have  no  faces  wherewith  to  frown  awful  wrath 
upon  me !  If  it  be  a  Person  who  has  been  leading 
me,  I  must  go  mad,  or  know  that  He  has  forgiven  !" 

"I  conceive  that  it  is  He,  and  not  punishment 
which  you  fear  ?" 

Lancelot  was  silent  a  moment  .  .  .  "Yes.  He, 
and  not  hell  at  all,  is  what  I  fear.  Ho  can  inflict  no 
punishment  on  me  worse  than  the  inner  hell  which 
I  have  felt  already,  many  and  many  a  time." 

"  Bona  verba  !  That  is  an  awful  thing  to  say :  but 
better  this  extreme  than  the  other.  .  .  .  And  you 
would — what  1" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         351 

"  Be  pardoned." 

"If  He  loves  you,  He  has  pardoned  you  already." 

"  How  do  I  know  that  He  loves  me  ?" 

"How  does  Tregarva?" 

"  He  is  a  righteous  man,  and  I ' 

"Am  a  sinner.  He  would,  and  rightly,  call  him- 
self the  same." 

"But  he  knows  that  God  loves  him — that  he  is 
God's  child." 

"  So,  then,  God  did  not  love  him  till  he  caused 
God  to  love  him,  by  knowing  that  He  loved  him? 
He  was  not  God's  child  till  he  made  himself  one,  by 
believing  that  he  was  one  when  as  yet  he  was  not  ? 
I  appeal  to  common  sense  and  logic.  ...  It  was 
revealed  to  Tregarva  that  God  had  been  loving  him 
while  he  was  yet  a  bad  man.  If  He  loved  him,  in 
spite  of  his  sin,  why  should  He  not  have  loved  you?" 

"  If  He  had  loved  me,  would  He  have  left  me  in 
ignorance  of  Himself  ?  For  if  He  be,  to  know  Him 
is  the  highest  good." 

"Had  he  left  Tregarva  in  ignorance  of  Himself?" 

"No.  .  .  .  Certainly,  Tregarva  spoke  of  his  con- 
version as  of  a  turning  to  one  of  whom  he  had  known 
all  along,  and  disregarded." 

"Then  do  you  turn  like  him,  to  Him  whom  you 
have  known  all  along,  and  disregarded." 

"I?" 

"  Yes — you  !  If  half  I  have  heard  and  seen  of  you 
be  true,  He  has  been  telling  you  more,  and  not  less, 
of  Himself  than  He  does  to  most  men.  You,  for 


352  THE  VALLEY  OF 

aught  I  know,  may  know  more  of  Him  than  Tregarva 
does.  The  gulf  between  you  and  him  is  this :  he  has 
obeyed  what  he  knew — and  you  have  not"  .  .  . 

Lancelot  paused  a  moment,  then — 

"  No ! — do  not  cheat  me !  You  said  once  that  you 
were  a  churchman." 

"  So  I  am.  A  Catholic  of  the  Catholics.  What 
thenf 

"  Who  is  He  to  whom  you  ask  me  to  turn  t  You 
talk  to  me  of  Him  as  my  Father ;  but  you  talk  of 
Him  to  men  of  your  own  creed  as  The  Father.  You 
have  mysterious  dogmas  of  a  Three  in  One.  I  know 
them.  ...  I  have  admired  them.  In  all  their  forms 
— in  the  Vedas,  in  the  Neo-Platonists,  in  Jacob  Boeh- 
men,  in  your  Catholic  creeds,  in  Coleridge,  and  the 
Germans  from  whom  he  borrowed,  I  have  looked  at 
them,  and  found  in  them  beautiful  phantasms  of 
philosophy,  ...  all  but  scientific  necessities;  .  .  . 
but " 

"  But  what  ?" 

"  I  do  not  want  cold  abstract  necessities  of  logic  : 
I  want  living  practical  facts.  If  those  mysterious 
dogmas  speak  of  real  and  necessary  properties  of  His 
being,  they  must  be  necessarily  interwoven  in  prac- 
tice with  His  revelation  of  Himself?" 

"  Most.  true.  But  how  would  you  have  Him  un- 
veil Himself  ?" 

"By  unveiling  Himself." 

"What?  To  your  simple  intuition?  That  was 
Semele's  ambition.  .  .  .  You  recollect  the  end  of  that 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         353 

myth.     You  recollect,  too,  as  you  have  read  the  Neo- 
Platonists,  the  result  of  their  similar  attempt." 

"Idolatry  and  magic." 

"True;  and  yet,  such  is  the  ambition  of  man,  you 
who  were  just  now  envying  Tregarva,  are  already 
longing  to  climb  even  higher  than  Saint  Theresa." 

"I  do  not  often  indulge  in  such  an  ambition.  But 
I  have  read  in  your  Schoolmen  tales  of  a  Beatific 
Vision ;  how  that  the  highest  good  for  man  was  to 
see  God." 

"And  did  you  believe  that?" 

"  One  cannot  believe  the  impossible — only  regret 
its  impossibility." 

"  Impossibility  1  You  can  only  see  the  Uncreate 
in  the  Create — the  Infinite  in  the  Finite — the  absolute 
good  in  that  which  is  like  the  good.  Does  Tregarva 
pretend  to  more  1  He  sees  God  in  His  own  thoughts 
and  consciousnesses,  and  in  the  events  of  the  world 
around  him,  imaged  in  the  mirror  of  his  own  mind. 
Is  your  mirror,  then,  so  much  narrower  than  his1?" 

"  I  have  none.  I  see  but  myself,  and  the  world, 
and  far  above  them,  a  dim  awful  Unity,  which  is  but 
a  notion." 

"Fool! — and  slow  of  heart  to  believe!  Where 
else  would  you  see  Him  but  in  yourself  and  in  the 
world  ?  They  are  all  things  cognisable  to  you. 
Where  else,  but  everywhere,  would  you  see  Him 
whom  no  man  hath  seen,  or  can  see1?" 

"  When  He  shows  Himself  to  me  in  them,  then  I 

may  see  Him.     But  now " 

2  A  v. 


354  THE  VALLEY  OF 

"  You  have  seen  Him ;  and  because  you  do  not 
know  the  name  of  what  you  see — or  rather  will  not 
acknowledge  it — you  fancy  that  it  is  not  there." 

"  How  in  His  name  ?    What  have  I  seen  V 

"Ask  yourself.  Have  you  not  seen,  in  your  fancy, 
at  least,  an  ideal  of  man,  for  which  you  spurned  (for 
Mellot  has  told  me  all)  the  merely  negative  angelic — 
the  merely  receptive  and  indulgent  feminine-ideals  of 
humanity,  and  longed  to  be  a  man,  like  that  ideal 
and  perfect  man  ?" 

"I  have." 

"And  what  was  your  misery  all  along?  Was  it 
not  that  you  felt  you  ought  to  be  a  person  with  a  one 
inner  unity,  a  one  practical  will,  purpose,  and  business 
given  to  you — not  invented  by  yourself — in  the  great 
order  and  harmony  of  the  universe, — and  that  you 
were  not  one? — That  your  self-willed  fancies,  and  self- 
pleasing  passions,  had  torn  you  in  pieces,  and  left 
you  inconsistent,  dismembered,  helpless,  purposeless? 
That,  in  short,  you  were  below  your  ideal,  just  in  pro- 
portion as  you  were  not  a  person  ?" 

"  God  knows  you  speak  truth  ! " 

"  Then  must  not  that  ideal  of  humanity  be  a  person 
himself? — Else  how  can  he  be  the  ideal  man  ?  Where 
is  your  logic?  An  impersonal  ideal  of  a  personal 
species !  .  .  .  And  what  is  the  most  special  peculiar- 
ity of  man  ?  Is  it  not  that  he  alone  of  creation  is  a 
son,  with  a  Father  to  love  and  to  obey?  Then  must 
not  the  ideal  man  be  a  son  also  ?  And  last,  but  not 
least,  is  it  not  the  very  property  of  man  that  li<  i-  ;i 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         355 

spirit  invested  with  flesh  and  blood  ?  Then  must  not 
the  ideal  man  have,  once  at  least,  taken  on  himself 
flesh  and  blood  also  ?  Else,  how  could  he  fulfil  his 
own  idea1?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  That  thought,  too,  has  glanced 
through  my  mind  at  moments,  like  a  lightning-flash ; 
till  I  have  envied  the  old  Greeks  their  faith  in  a  human 
Zeus,  son  of  Kronos — a  human  Phoibos,  son  of  Zeus. 
But  I  could  not  rest  in  them.  They  are  noble.  But 
are  they — are  any — perfect  ideals  ?  The  one  thing  I 
did,  and  do,  and  will  believe,  is  the  one  which  they 
do  not  fulfil — that  man  is  meant  to  be  the  conqueror 
of  the  earth,  matter,  nature,  decay,  death  itself,  and 
to  conquer  them,  as  Bacon  says,  by  obeying  them." 

"  Hold  it  fast ; — but  follow  it  out,  and  say  boldly, 
the  ideal  of  humanity  must  be  one  who  has  conquered 
nature — one  who  rules  the  universe — one  who  has 
vanquished  death  itself;  and  conquered  them,  as 
Bacon  says,  not  by  violating,  but  by  submitting  to 
them.  Have  you  never  heard  of  one  who  is  said  to 
have  done  this  1  How  do  you  know  that  in  this  ideal 
which  you  have  seen,  you  have  not  seen  the  Son — the 
perfect  Man,  who  died  and  rose  again,  and  sits  for 
ever  Healer,  and  Lord,  and  Euler  of  the  universe?  .  .  . 
Stay — do  not  answer  me.  Have  you  not,  besides,  had 
dreams  of  an  all-Father — from  whom,  in  some  mys- 
terious way,  all  things  and  beings  must  derive  their 
source,  and  that  Son — if  my  theory  be  true — among 
the  rest,  and  above  all  the  rest  1" 

"  Who  has  not  t    But  what  more  dim  or  distant 


356  TIFE  VALLEY  OF 

—  more  drearily,  hopelessly  notional,  than  that 
thought?" 

"  Only  the  thought  that  there  is  none.  But  the 
dreariness  was  only  in  your  own  inconsistency.  If  He 
be  the  Father  of  all,  He  must  be  the  Father  of  persons 
— He  Himself  therefore  a  Person.  He  must  be  the 
Father  of  all  in  whom  dwell  personal  qualities,  power, 
wisdom,  creative  energy,  love,  justice,  pity.  Can  He 
be  their  Father,  unless  all  these  very  qualities  are  in- 
finitely His?  Does  He  now  look  so  terrible  to  you?" 

"  I  have  had  this  dream,  too ;  but  I  turned  away 
from  it  in  dread." 

"Doubtless  you  did.  Some  day  you  will  know 
why.  Does  that  former  dream  of  a  human  Son 
relieve  this  dream  of  none  of  its  awf ulness  ?  May  not 
the  type  be  beloved  for  the  sake  of  its  Antitype,  even 
if  the  very  name  of  All-Father  is  no  guarantee  for 
His  paternal  pity  !  .  .  .  But  you  have  had  this  dream. 
How  know  you,  that  in  it  you  were  not  allowed  a 
glimpse,  however  dim  and  distant,  of  Him  whom  the 
Catholics  call  the  Father?" 

"  It  may  be ;  but— 

"  Stay  again.  Had  you  never  the  sense  of  a  Spirit 
in  you — a  will,  an  energy,  an  inspiration,  deeper  than 
the  region  of  consciousness  and  reflection,  which,  like 
the  wind,  blew  where  it  listed,  and  you  heard  tho 
sound  of  it  ringing  through  your  whole  consciousness, 
and  yet  knew  not  whence  it  came,  or  whither  it  went, 
or  why  it  drove  you  on  to  dare  and  suffer,  to  love 
and  hate ;  to  be  a  fighter,  a  sportsman,  an  urtist " 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         357 

"And  a  drunkard  !"  added  Lancelot,  sadly. 

"  And  a  drunkard.  But  did  it  never  seem  to  you 
that  this  strange  wayward,  spirit,  if  anything,  was  the 
very  root  and  core  of  your  own  personality?  And 
had  you  never  a  craving  for  the  help  of  some  higher, 
mightier  spirit,  to  guide  and  strengthen  yours ;  to 
regulate  and  civilise  its  savage  and  spasmodic  self- 
will;  to  teach  you  your  rightful  place  in  the  great 
order  of  the  universe  around ;  to  fill  you  with  a  con- 
tinuous purpose  and  with  a  continuous  will  to  do  it  1 
Have  you  never  had  a  dream  of  an  InspireH — a 
spirit  of  all  spirits'?" 

Lancelot  turned  away  with  a  shudder. 

"  Talk  of  anything  but  that !  Little  you  know — 
and  yet  you  seem  to  know  everything — the  agony  of 
craving  with  which  I  have  longed  for  guidance ;  the 
rage  and  disgust  which  possessed  me  when  I  tried 
one  pretended  teacher  after  another,  and  found  in 
myself  depths  which  their  spirits  could  not,  or  rather 
would  not,  touch.  I  have  been  irreverent  to  the 
false,  from  very  longing  to  worship  the  true ;  I  have 
been  a  rebel  to  sham  leaders,  for  very  desire  to  be 
loyal  to  a  real  one ;  I  have  envied  my  poor  cousin 
his  Jesuits ;  I  have  envied  my  own  pointers  their 
slavery  to  my  whip  and  whistle ;  I  have  fled,  as  a  last 
resource,  to  brandy  and  opium,  for  the  inspiration 
which  neither  man  nor  demon  would  bestow.  .  .  . 
Then  I  found  .  .  .  you  know  my  story.  .  .  .  And 
when  I  looked  to  her  to  guide  and  inspire  me,  behold ! 
I  found  myself,  by  the  very  laws  of  humanity,  com- 


358  THE  VALLEY  OF 

polled  to  guide  and  inspire  her; — blind,  to  lead  the 
blind  ! — Thank  God,  for  her  sake,  that  she  was  taken 
from  me ! " 

"  Did  you  ever  mistake  these  substitutes,  even  the 
noblest  of  them,  for  the  reality  !  Did  not  your  very 
dissatisfaction  with  them  show  you  that  the  true  in- 
spirer  ought  to  be,  if  he  were  to  satisfy  your  cravings, 
a  person,  truly — else  how  could  he  inspire  and  teach 
you,  a  person  yourself  ! — but  an  utterly  infinite,  omni- 
scient, eternal  person  ?  How  know  you  that  in  that 
dream  He  was  not  unveiling  Himself  to  you — He, 
The  Spirit,  who  is  the  Lord  and  Giver  of  Life ;  The 
Spirit,  who  teaches  men  their  duty  and  relation  to 
those  above,  around,  beneath  them;  The  Spirit  of 
order,  obedience,  loyalty,  brotherhood,  mercy,  conde- 
scension?" 

"  But  I  never  could  distinguish  these  dreams  from 
each  other;  the  moment  that  I  essayed  to  separate 
them,  I  seemed  to  break  up  the  thought  of  an  absolute 
one  ground  of  all  things,  without  which  the  universe 
would  have  seemed  a  piecemeal  chaos;  and  they 
receded  to  infinite  distance,  and  became  transparent, 
barren,  notional  shadows  of  my  own  brain,  even  as 
your  words  are  now." 

"How  know  you  that  you  were  meant  to  distin- 
guish them  ?  How  know  you  that  that  very  impossi- 
bility was  not  the  testimony  of  fact  and  experience  to 
that  old  Catholic  dogma,  for  the  sake,  of  which  you 
just  now  shrank  from  my  teaching  ?  I  say  that  this  is 
.-••<>.  How  do  you  know  that  it  is  not?" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  359 

"But  how  do  I  know  that  it  is?     I  want  proof." 

"  And  you  are  the  man  who  was,  five  minutes  ago, 
crying  out  for  practical  facts,  and  disdaining  cold 
abstract  necessities  of  logic  !  Can  you  prove  that 
your  body  exists  ?" 

"No." 

"Can  you  prove  that  your  spirit  exists?" 

"No." 

"  And  yet  know  that  they  both  exist.  And 
how?" 

"Solvitur  ambulando." 

"  Exactly.  When  you  try  to  prove  either  of  them 
without  the  other,  you  fail.  You  arrive,  if  at  any- 
thing, at  some  barren  polar  notion.  By  action  alone 
you  prove  the  mesothetic  fact  which  underlies  and 
unites  them." 

"Quorsum  heec?" 

"  Hither.  I  am  not  going  to  demonstrate  the  in- 
demonstrable— to  give  you  intellectual  notions  which, 
after  all,  will  be  but  reflexes  of  my  own  peculiar  brain, 
and  so  add  the  green  of  my  spectacles  to  the  orange 
of  yours,  and  make  night  hideous  by  fresh  monsters. 
I  may  help  you  to  think  yourself  into  a  theoretical 
Tritheism,  or  a  theoretical  Sabellianism ;  I  cannot  make 
you  think  yourself  into  practical  and  living  Catholicism. 
As  you  of  anthropology,  so  I  say  of  theology, — Solvitur 
ambulando.  Don't  believe  Catholic  doctrine  unless 
you  like ;  faith  is  free.  But  see  if  you  can  reclaim 
either  society  or  yourself  without  it ;  see  if  He  will 
let  you  reclaim  them.  Take  Catholic  doctrine  for 


360  THE  VALLEY  OF 

granted  ;  act  on  it  ;  and  see  if  you  will  not  reclaim 
them!" 

"  Take  for  granted  1  Am  I  to  come,  after  all,  to 
implicit  faith  V' 

"  Implicit  fiddlesticks  !  Did  you  ever  read  the 
1  Novum  Organum  '?  Mellot  told  me  that  you  were  a 
geologist  " 


"  You  took  for  granted  what  you  read  in  geological 
books,  and  went  to  the  mine  and  the  quarry  afterwards, 
to*  verify  it  in  practice;  and  according  as  you  found 
fact  correspond  to  theory,  you  retained  or  rejected. 
Was  that  implicit  faith,  or  common  sense,  common 
humility,  and  sound  induction  ?" 

"Sound  induction,  at  least" 

"  Then  go  now,  and  do  likewise.  Believe  that  the 
learned,  wise,  and  good,  for  1800  years,  may  possibly 
have  found  out  somewhat,  or  have  been  taught  some- 
what, on  this  matter,  and  test  their  theory  by  practice. 
If  a  theory  on  such  a  point  is  worth  anything  at  all, 
it  is  omnipotent  and  all  -explaining.  If  it  will  not 
work,  of  course  there  is  no  use  keeping  it  a  moment 
Perhaps  it  will  work  I  say  it  will." 

"  But  I  shall  not  work  it  ;  I  still  dread  my  own 
spectacles.  I  dare  not  trust  myself  alone  to  verify  a 
theory  of  Murchison's  or  Lyell's.  How  dare  I  trust 
myself  in  this  f 

"  Then  do  not  trust  yourself  alone  :  come  and  see 
what  others  are  doing.  Come,  and  become  a  nicmlicr 
of  a  body  which  is  verifying,  by  united  action,  those 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.         361 

universal  and  eternal  truths,  which  are  too  great  for 
the  grasp  of  any  one  time-ridden  individual.  Not 
that  we  claim  the  gift  of  infallibility,  any  more  than 
I  do  that  of  perfect  utterance  of  the.  little  which  we 
do  know." 

"Then  what  do  you  promise  me  in  asking  me  to 
go  with  you?" 

"  Practical  proof  that  these  my  words  are  true, — 
practical  proof  that  they  can  make  a  nation  all  that 
England  might  be  and  is  not, — the  sight  of  what  a 
people  might  become  who,  knowing  thus  far,  do  what 
they  know.  We  believe  no  more  than  you,  but  we  be- 
lieve it.  Come  and  see  ! — and  yet  you  will  not  see  ; 
facts,  and  the  reasons  of  them,  will  be  as  impalpable  to 
you  there  as  here,  unless  you  can  again  obey  your 
Novum  Organum." 

"How  then1?" 

"By  renouncing  all  your  idols — the  idols  of  the 
race  and  of  the  market,  of  the  study  and  of  the  theatre. 
Every  national  prejudice,  every  vulgar  superstition, 
every  remnant  of  pedantic  system,  every  sentimental 
like  or  dislike,  must  be  left  behind  you,  for  the  induc- 
tion of  the  world  problem.  You  must  empty  yourself 
before  God  will  fill  you." 

"  Of  what  can  I  strip  myself  more  1  I  know 
nothing;  I  can  do  nothing;  I  hope  nothing;  I  fear 
nothing;  I  am  nothing." 

"And  you  would  gain  something.  But  for  what 
purpose? — for  on  that  depends  your  whole  success. 
To  be  famous,  great,  glorious,  powerful,  beneficent  1" 


362   THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH. 

"  As  I  live,  the  height  of  my  ambition,  small  though 
it  be,  is  only  to  find  my  place,  though  it  were  but  as 
a  sweeper  of  chimneys.  If  I  dare  wish — if  I  dare 
choose,  it  would  be  only  this — to  regenerate  one  little 
parish  in  the  whole  world.  ...  To  do  that,  and  die, 
for  aught  I  care,  without  ever  being  recognised  as  the 
author  of  my  own  deeds  ...  to  hear  them,  if  need 
be,  imputed  to  another,  and  myself  accursed  as  a  fool, 
if  I  can  but  atone  for  the  sins  of  "  .  .  . 

He  paused ;  but  his  teacher  understood  him. 

"  It  is  enough,"  he  said.  "  Come  with  me ;  Tre- 
garva  waits  for  us  near.  Again  I  warn  you ;  you  \\  ill 
hear  nothing  new ;  you  shall  only  see  what  you,  and 
all  around  you,  have  known  and  not  done,  known  and 
done.  We  have  no  peculiar  doctrines  or  systems; 
the  old  creeds  are  enough  for  us.  But  we  have 
obeyed  the  teaching  which  we  received  in  each  and 
every  age,  and  allowed  ourselves  to  be  built  up,  genera- 
tion by  generation — as  the  rest  of  Christendom  might 
have  done — into  a  living  temple,  on  the  foundation 
which  is  laid  already,  and  other  than  which  no  man 
can  lay." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"Jesus  Christ— THE  MAN." 

He  took  Lancelot  by  the  hand.  A  peaceful  warmth 
diffused  itself  over  his  limbs ;  the  droning  of  the  organ 
sounded  fainter  and  more  faint;  the  marble  monu- 
ments grew  dim  and  distant ;  and,  half  unconsciously, 
he  followed  like  a  child  through  the  cathedral  door. 


EPILOGUE. 

I  CAN  foresee  many  criticisms,  and  those  not  unreason- 
able ones,  on  this  little  book — let  it  be  some  excuse 
at  least  for  me,  that  I  have  foreseen  them.  Eeaders 
will  complain,  I  doubt  not,  of  the  very  mythical  and 
mysterious  denouement  of  a  story  which  began  by 
things  so  gross  and  palpable  as  field-sports  and  pauper- 
ism. But  is  it  not  true  that,  sooner  or  later,  "  omnia 
exeunt  in  mysterium  "  ?  Out  of  mystery  we  all  came 
at  our  birth,  fox-hunters  and  paupers,  sages  and  saints ; 
into  mystery  we  shall  all  return  ...  at  all  events, 
when  we  die ;  probably,  as  it  seems  to  me,  some  of  us 
will  return  thither  before  we  die.  For  if  the  signs 
of  the  times  mean  anything,  they  portend,  I  humbly 
submit,  a  somewhat  mysterious  and  mythical  denoue- 
ment to  this  very  age,  and  to  those  struggles  of  it 
which  I  have  herein  attempted,  clumsily  enough,  to 
sketch.  We  are  entering  fast,  I  both  hope  and  fear, 
into  the  region  of  prodigy,  true  and  false;  and  our 
great-grandchildren  will  look  back  on  the  latter  half 
of  this  century,  and  ask,  if  it  were  possible  that  such 
things  could  happen  in  an  organised  planet?  The 


364  EPILOGUE. 

Benthamites  will  receive  this  announcement,  if  it  ever 
meets  their  eyes,  with  shouts  of  laughter.  Be  it  so 
.  .  .  nous  verrons.  ...  In  the  year  1847,  if  they 
will  recollect,  they  were  congratulating  themselves  on 
the  nations  having  grown  too  wise  to  go  to  war  any 
more  .  .  .  and  in  1848?  So  it  has  been  from  the 
beginning.  What  did  philosophers  expect  in  1792? 
What  did  they  see  in  1 793  ?  Popery  was  to  be  eternal : 
but  the  Reformation  came  nevertheless.  Rome  was 
to  be  eternal:  but  Alaric  came.  Jerusalem  was  to 
be  eternal :  but  Titus  came.  Gomorrha  was  to  be 
eternal,  I  doubt  not;  but  the  fire-floods  came.  .  .  . 
"  As  it  was  in  the  days  of  Noah,  so  shall  it  be  in  the 
days  of  the  Son  of  Man.  They  were  eating,  drinking, 
marrying,  and  giving  in  marriage ;  and  the  flood  came 
and  swept  them  all  away."  Of  course  they  did  not 
expect  it  They  went  on  saying,  "  Where  is  the  pro- 
mise of  his  coming  ?  For  all  things  continue  as  they 
were  from  the  beginning."  Most  true;  but  what  if 
they  were  from  the  beginning — over  a  volcano's  mouth? 
What  if  the  method  whereon  things  have  proceeded 
since  the  creation  were,  as  geology  as  well  as  history 
proclaims,  a  cataclysmic  method?  What  then?  Why 
should  not  this  age,  as  all  others  like  it  have  done, 
end  in  a  cataclysm,  and  a  prodigy,  and  a  mystery  ? 
And  why  should  not  my  little  book  do  likewise  ? 

Again — Readers  will  probably  complain  of  the 
fragmentary  and  unconnected  form  of  the  lx>ok.  Let 
them  first  be  sure  that  that  is  not  an  integral  feature 
of  the  subject  itself,  and  therefore  the  very  form  the 


EPILOGUE.  •    365 

book  should  take.  Do  not  young  men  think,  .speak, 
act,  just  now,  in  this  very  incoherent,  fragmentary 
way;  without  methodic  education  or  habits  of  thought; 
with  the  various  stereotyped  systems  which  they  have 
received  by  tradition,  breaking  up  under  them  like  ice 
in  a  thaw ;  with  a  thousand  facts  and  notions,  which 
they  know  not  how  to  "classify,  pouring  in  on  them 
like  a  flood  1 — a  very  Yeasty  state  of  mind  altogether, 
like  a  mountain  burn  in  a  spring  rain,  carrying  down 
with  it  stones,  sticks,  pealxwater,  addle  grouse-eggs 
and  drowned  kingfishers,  fertilising  salts  and  vegetable 
poisons — not,  alas !  without  a  large  crust,  here  and 
there,  of  sheer  froth.  Yet  no  heterogeneous  confused 
ilood-deposit,  no  fertile  meadows  below.  And  no  high 
water,  no  fishing.  It  is  in  the  long  black  droughts, 
when  the  water  is  foul  from  lowness,  and  not  from 
height,  that  Hydras  and  Desmidise,  and  Botifers,  and 
all  uncouth  pseud-organisms,  bred  of  putridity,  begin 
to  multiply,  and  the  fish  are  sick  for  want  of  a  fresh, 
and  the  cunningest  artificial  fly  is  of  no  avail,  and  the 
shrewdest  angler  will  do  nothing — except  with  a  gross 
fleshly  gilt-tailed  worm,  or  the  cannibal  bait  of  roe, 
whereby  parent  fishes,  like  competitive  barbarisms, 
devour  each  other's  flesh  and  blood — perhaps  their 
own.  It  is  when  the  stream  is  clearing  after  a  flood, 
that  the  fish  will  rise.  .  .  .  When  will  the  flood  clear, 
and  the  fish  come  on  the  feed  again  1 

Next ;  I  shall  be  blamed  for  having  left  untold  the 
fate  of  those  characters  who  have  acted  throughout  as 
Lancelot's  satellites.  But  indeed  their  only  purpose 


366  '  EPILOGUE. 

consisted  in  their  influence  on  his  development,  and 
that  of  Tregarva ;  I  do  not  see  that  we  have  any  need 
to  follow  them  farther.  The  reader  can  surely  con- 
jecture their  history  for  himself.  ...  He  may  be 
pretty  certain  that  they  have  gone  the  way  of  the 
world  .  .  .  abierunt  ad  plures  ...  for  this  life  or 
for  the  next  They  have  done — very  much  what  he 
or  I  might  have  done  in  their  place — nothing.  Nature 
brings  very  few  of  her  children  to  perfection,  in  these 
days  or  any  other.  .  .  .  And  for  Grace,  which  does 
bring  its  children  to  perfection,  the  quantity  and 
quality  of  the  perfection  must  depend  on  the  quantity 
and  quality  of  the  grace,  and  that  again,  to  an  awful 
extent — The  Giver  only  knows  to  how  great  an  extent 
— on  the  will  of  the  recipients,  and  therefore  in  exact 
proportion  to  their  lowness  in  the  human  scale,  on  the 
circumstances  which  environ  them.  So  my  characters 
are  now — very  much  what  the  reader  might  expect 
them  to  be.  I  confess  them  to  be  unsatisfactory ;  so 
are  most  things  :  but  how  can  I  solve  problems  which 
fact  has  not  yet  solved  for  me  f  How  am  I  to  extri- 
cate my  antitypal  characters,  when  their  living  types 
have  not  yet  extricated  themselves  ?  When  the  age 
moves  on,  my  story  shall  move  on  with  it  Let  it  be 
enough,  that  my  puppets  have  retreated  in  good  order, 
and  that  I  am  willing  to  give  to  those  readers  who 
have  conceived  something  of  human  interest  for  them, 
the  latest  accounts  of  their  doings. 

With  the  exception,  that  is,  of  Mellot  and  Sal>in;i. 
Them  I  confess  to  be  an  utterly  mysterious,  fragment- 


EPILOGUE.  367 

ary  little  couple.  Why  not  ?  Do  you  not  meet  with 
twenty  such  in  the  course  of  your  life? — Charming 
people,  who  for  aught  you  know  may  be  opera  folk 
from  Paris,  or  emissaries  from  the  Czar,  or  disguised 
Jesuits,  or  disguised  Angels  .  .  .  who  evidently 
"have  a  history,"  and  a  strange  one,  which  you  never 
expect  or  attempt  to  fathom ;  who  interest  you  in- 
tensely for  a  while,  and  then  are  whirled  away  again 
in  the  great  world-waltz,  and  lost  in  the  crowd  for 
ever?  Why  should  you  wish  my  story  to  be  more 
complete  than  theirs  is,  or  less  romantic  than  theirs 
may  be  ?  There  are  more  things  in  London,  as  well 
as  in  heaven  and  earth,  than  are  dreamt  of  in  our 
philosophy.  If  you  but  knew  the  secret  history  of 
that  dull  gentleman  opposite  whom  you  sat  at  dinner 
yesterday  ! — the  real  thoughts  of  that  chattering  girl 
whom  you  took  down  ! — "  Omnia  exeunt  in  mys- 
terium,"  I  say  again.  Every  human  being  is  a 
romance,  a  miracle  to  himself  now ;  and  will  appear 
as  one  to  all  the  world  in  That  Day. 

But  now  for  the  rest;  and  Squire  Lavington  first. 
He  is  a  very  fair  sample  of  the  fate  of  the  British 
public ;  for  he  is  dead  and  buried :  and  readers  would 
not  have  me  extricate  him  out  of  that  situation.  If 
you  ask  news  of  the  reason  and  manner  of  his  end,  I 
can  only  answer,  that  like  many  others,  he  went  out 
— as  candles  do.  I  believe  he  expressed  general  re- 
pentance for  all  his  sins — all,  at  least,  of  which  he 
was  aware.  To  confess  and  repent  of  the  state  of  the 
Whitford  Priors  estate,  and  of  the  poor  thereon,  was 


368  EPILOGUE. 

of  course  more  than  any  minister,  of  any  denomina- 
tion whatsoever,  could  be  required  to  demand  of  him ; 
seeing  that  would  have  involved  a  recognition  of  those 
duties  of  property,  of  which  the  good  old  gentleman 
was  to  the  last  a  staunch  denier ;  and  which  are  as 
yet  seldom  supposed  to  be  included  in  any  Christian 
creed,  Catholic  or  other.  Two  sermons  were  preached 
in  Whitford  on  the  day  of  his  funeral ;  one  by  Mr. 
O'Blareaway,  on  the  text  from  Job,  provided  for  such 
occasions ;  "  When  the  ear  heard  him,  then  it  blessed 
him,"  etc.  etc.  :  the  other  by  the  Baptist  preacher,  oil 
two  verses  of  the  forty-ninth  Psalm — 

"They  fancy  that  their  houses  shall  endure  for 
ever,  and  call  the  lands  after  their  own  namea 

"  Yet  man  being  in  honour  hath  no  understanding, 
but  is  compared  to  the  beasts  that  perish." 

Waiving  the  good  taste,  which  was  probably  on  a 
par  in  both  cases,  the  reader  is  left  to  decide  which  of 
the  two  texts  was  most  applicable. 

Mrs.  Lavington  is  Mrs.  Lavington  fto  longer.  She 
has  married,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  world  in 
general,  that  "  excellent  man,"  Mr.  O'Blareaway,  who 
has  been  discovered  not  to  be  quite  as  young  as  he 
appeared,  his  graces  being  principally  owing  to  a 
Brutus  wig,  which  he  has  now  wisely  discarded.  Mrs. 
Lavington  now  sits  in  state  under  her  husband's 
ministry,  as  the  leader  of  the  religious  world  in  the 
fashionable  watering-place  of  Steamingbath,  an<l  «lc 
rives  her  notions  of  the  past,  present,  and  future  state 
of  the  universe  principally  from  those  two  meek  and 


EPILOGUE.  369 

unbiassed  periodicals,  the  Protestant  Hue-and-Cry  and 
the  Christian  Satirist,  to  both  of  which  O'Blareaway  is 
a  constant  contributor.     She  has  taken  such  an  aver- 
sion to  Whitford  since  Argemone's  death,  that  she  has 
ceased  to  have  any  connection  with  that  unhealthy 
locality,  beyond  the  popular  and  easy  one  of  -rent- 
receiving.     O'Blareaway  has  never  entered  the  parish 
to  his  knowledge  since  Mr.  Lavington's  funeral ;  and 
was  much  pleased,  the  last  time  I  rode  with  him,  at 
my  informing  him  that  a  certain  picturesque  moor- 
land which  he  had  been  greatly  admiring,  was  his  own 
possession.  .  .  .  After  all,  he  is  "an  excellent  man;" 
and  when  I  met  a  large  party  at  his  house  the  other 
day,  and  beheld  dory  and  surmullet,  champagne  and 
lachryma  Christi,  amid  all  the  glory  of  the  Whitford 
plate  .  .   .  (some  of  it  said  to  have  belonged  to  the 
altar  of  the  Priory   church  four  hundred  years  ago), 
I  was  deeply  moved   by  the  impressive  tone  in  which, 
at  the  end  of  a  long  grace,  he  prayed  "  that  the  daily 
bread  of  our  less -favoured  brethren  might  be  merci- 
fully vouchsafed  to   them."   .   .   .   My  dear  readers, 
would  you  have  me,  even  if  I  could,  extricate  him  from 
such  an  Elysium  by  any  denouement  whatsoever  ? 

Poor  dear  Luke,  again,  is  said  to  be  painting  lean 
frescoes  for  the  Something-or -other- Kirche  at  Munich ; 
and  the  vicar,  under  the  name  of  Father  Stylites,  of 
the  order  of  St.  Philumena,  is  preaching  impassioned 
sermons  to  crowded  congregations  at  St.  George's, 
Bedlam.  How  can  I  extricate  them  from  that  1  No 
one  has  come  forth  of  it  yet,  to  my  knowledge,  except 
2  B  Y. 


370  EPILOGUE. 

by  paths  whereof  I  shall  use  Lessing's  saying,  "  I  may 
have  my  whole  hand  full  of  truth,  and  yet  find  good 
to  open  only  my  little  finger."  But  who  cares  for 
their  coming  out  1  They  are  but  two  more  added  to 
the  five  hundred,  at  whose  moral  suicide,  and  dive 
into  the  Roman  Avernus,  a  quasi -Protestant  public 
looks  on  with  a  sort  of  savage  satisfaction,  crying  only, 
"  Didn't  we  tell  you  so  ?" — and  more  than  hah*  hopes 
that  they  will  not  come  back  again,  lest  they  should 
be  discovered  to  have  learnt  anything  while  they 
were  there.  What  are  two  among  that  five  hundred  ? 
much  more  among  the  five  thousand  who  seem  destined 
shortly  to  follow  them  1 

The  banker,  thanks  to  Barnakill's  assistance,  is 
rapidly  getting  rich  again — who  would  wish  to  stop 
him  1  However,  he  is  wiser,  on  some  points  at  least, 
than  he  was  of  yore.  He  has  taken  up  the  flax  move- 
ment violently  of  late — perhaps  owing  to  some  hint  of 
Barnakill's — talks  of  nothing  but  Chevalier  Claussen 
and  Mr.  Donellan,  and  is  very  anxious  to  advance 
capital  to  any  landlord  who  will  grow  flax  on  Mr. 
Warnes's  method,  either  in  England  or  Ireland.  .  .  . 
John  Bull,  however,  has  not  yet  awakened  suffi- 
ciently to  listen  to  his  overtures,  but  sits  up  in  bed, 
dolefully  nibbing  his  eyes,  and  bemoaning  the  evan- 
ishment  of  his  protectionist  dream — altogether  Mil 
ising  tolerably,  he  and  his  land,  Dr.  Watts'  well- 
known  moral  song  concerning  the  sluggard  and  his 
garden. 

Lord  Minchampstead  again  prospers.     Either  the 


EPILOGUE.  371 

nuns  of  Minchampstead  have  left  no  Nemesis  behind 
them,  like  those  of  Whitf  ord,  or  a  certain  wisdom  and 
righteousness  of  his,  however  dim  and  imperfect, 
averts  it  for  a  time.  So,  as  I  said,  he  prospers,  and 
is  hated ;  especially  by  his  farmers,  to  whom  he  has 
just  offered  long  leases,  and  a  sliding  corn-rent.  They 
would  have  hated  him  just  the  same  if  he  had  kept 
them  at  rack-rents ;  and  he  has  not  forgotten  that ; 
but  they  have.  They  looked  shy  at  the  leases,  be- 
cause they  bind  them  to  farm  high,  which  they  do 
not  know  how  to  do ;  and  at  the  corn-rent,  because 
they  think  that  he  expects  wheat  to  rise  again — 
which,  being  a  sensible  man,  he  very  probably  does. 
But  for  my  story — I  certainly  do  not  see  how  to  extri- 
cate him  or  any  one  else  from  farmers'  stupidity, 
greed,  and  ill-will.  .  .  .  .That  question  must  have 
seven  years'  more  free-trade  to  settle  it,  before  I  can 
say  anything  thereon.  Still  less  can  I  foreshadow  the 
fate  of  his  eldest  son,  who  has  just  been  rusticated 
from  Christ  Church  for  riding  one  of  Simmons's  hacks 
through  a  china-shop  window ;  especially  as  the  youth 
is  reported  to  be  given  to  piquette  and  strong  liquors, 
and,  like  many  noblemen's  eldest  sons,  is  considered 
"not  to  have  the  talent  of  his  father."  As  for  the 
old  lord  himself,  I  have  no  wish  to  change  or  develop 
him  in  any  way — except  to  cut  slips  off  him,  as  you 
do  off  a  willow,  and  plant  two  or  three  in  every 
county  in  England.  Let  him  alone  to  work  out  his 
own  plot  ...  we  have  not  seen  the  end  of  it  yet ; 
but  whatever  it  will  be,  England  has  need  of  him  as 


372  EPILOGUE. 

a  transition  -stage  between  feudalism  and  *  *  *  *, 
for  many  a  day  to  come.  If  he  be  not  the  ideal 
landlord,  he  is  nearer  it  than  any  we  are  like  yet  to 
see.  .  .  . 

Except  one ;  and  that,  after  all,  is  Lord  Vieuxbois. 
Let  him  go  on,  like  a  gallant  gentleman  as  he  is,  and 
prosper.  And  he  will  prosper,  for  he  fears  God,  and 
God  is  with  him.  He  has  much  to  learn ;  and  a  little 
to  unleara  He  has  to  learn  that  God  is  a  living  God 
now,  as  well  as  in  the  middle  ages ;  to  learn  to  trust 
not  in  antique  precedents,  but  in  eternal  laws :  to 
learn  that  his  tenants,  just  because  they  are  children 
of  God,  are  not  to  be  kept  children,  but  developed 
and  educated  into  sons ;  to  learn  that  God's  grace, 
like  His  love,  is  free,  and  that  His  spirit  bloweth 
where  it  listeth,  and  vindicates  its  own  free-will 
against  our  narrow  systems,  by  revealing,  at  times, 
even  to  nominal  Heretics  and  Infidels,  truths  which 
the  Catholic  Church  must  humbly  receive,  as  the 
message  of  Him  who  is  wider,  deeper,  more  tolerant, 
than  even  she  can  be.  ...  And  he  is  in  the  way  to 
learn  all  this.  Let  him  go  on.  At  what  conclusions 
he  will  attain,  he  knows  not,  nor  do  I.  But  this  I 
know,  that  he  is  on  the  path  to  great  and  true  con- 
clusions. .  .  .  And  he  is  just  about  to  be  married,  too. 
That  surely  should  teach  him  something.  The  papers 
inform  me  that  his  bride  elect  is  Lord  Minchampstead's 
youngest  daughter.  That  should  be  a  noble  mixture ; 
there  should  be  stalwart  offspring,  spiritual  as  well  as 
physical,  born  of  that  intermarriage  of  the  old  and 


EPILOGUE.  373 

the  new.  We  will  hope  it:  perhaps  some  of  my 
readers,  who  enter  into  my  inner  meaning,  may  also 
pray  for  it. 

Whom  have  I  to  account  for  besides?  Crawy — 
though  some  of  my  readers  may  consider  the  mention 
of  him  superfluous.  But  to  those  who  do  not,  I  may 
impart  the  news,  that  last  month,  in  the  union  work- 
house— he  died ;  and  may,  for  aught  we  know,  have 
ere  this  met  Squire  Lavington.  .  .  .  He  is  supposed, 
or  at  least  said,  to  have  had  a  soul  to  be  saved  .  .  . 
as  I  think,  a  body  to  be  saved  also.  But  what  is  one 
more  among  so  many?  And  in  an  over-peopled 
country  like  this,  too.  .  .  .  One  must  learn  to  look 
at  things — and  paupers — in  the  mass. 

The  poor  of  Whitford  also1?  My  dear  readers,  I 
trust  you  will  not  ask  me  just  now  to  draw  the  horo 
scope  of  the  Whitford  poor,  or  of  any  others.  Really 
that  depends  principally  on  yourselves.  .  .  .  But  for 
the  present,  the  poor  of  Whitford,  owing,  as  it  seems 
to  them  and  me,  to  quite  other  causes  than  an  "  over- 
stocked labour-market,"  or  too  rapid  "  multiplication 
of  their  species,"  are  growing  more  profligate,  reckless, 
pauperised,  year  by  year.  O'Blareaway  complained 
sadly  to  me  the  other  day  that  the  poor-rates  were 
becoming  "heavier  and  heavier" — had  nearly  reached, 
indeed,  what  they  were  under  the  old  law.  .  .  . 

But  there  is  one  who  does  not  complain,  but  gives 
and  gives,  and  stints  herself  to  give,  and  weeps  in 
silence  and  unseen  over  the  evils  which  she  has  yearly 
less  and  less  power  to  stem. 


374  EPILOGUE. 

For  in  a  darkened  chamber  of  the  fine  house  at 
Steamingbath,  lies  on  a  sofa  Honoria  Lavington  — 
beautiful  no  more ;  the  victim  of  some  mysterious  and 
agonising  disease,  about  which  the  physicians  agree 
on  one  point  only — that  it  is  hopeless.  The  "  curse 
of  the  Lavingtons"  is  on  her;  and  she  bears  it 
There  she  lies,  and  prays,  and  reads,  and  arranges  her 
charities,  and  writes  little  books  for  children,  full  of 
the  Beloved  Name  which  is  for  ever  on  her  lips.  She 
suffers — none  but  herself  knows  how  much,  or  how 
strangely — yet  she  is  never  heard  to  sigh.  She  weeps 
in  secret — she  has  long  ceased  to  plead — for  others, 
not  for  herself;  and  prays  for  them  too — perhaps 
some  day  her  prayers  will  yet  be  answered.  But  she 
greets  all  visitors  with  a  smile  fresh  from  heaven  ;  and 
all  who  enter  that  room  leave  it  saddened,  and  yet 
happy,  like  those  who  have  lingered  a  moment  at  the 
gates  of  paradise,  and  seen  angels  ascending  and 
descending  upon  earth.  There  she  lies — who  could 
wish  her  otherwise  ?  Even  Doctor  Autotheus  Mares- 
nest,  the  celebrated  mesmeriser,  who,  though  he 
laughs  at  the  Resurrection  of  The  Lord,  is  confidently 
reported  to  have  raised  more  than  one  corpse  to  life 
himself,  was  heard  to  say,  after  having  attended  her 
professionally,  that  her  waking  bliss  and  peace,  al- 
though unfortunately  unattributable  even  to  auto- 
catalepsy,  much  less  to  somnambulist  exaltation, 
was  on  the  whole,  however  unscientific,  almost  as 
enviable. 

There  she  lies — and  will  lie  till  she  dies — the  type 


EPILOGUE.  375 

of  thousands  more,  "  the  martyrs  by  the  pang  without 
the  palm,"  who  find  no  mates  in  this  life  .  .  .  and 
yet  may  find  them  in  the  life  to  come.  .  .  .  Poor 
Paul  Tregarva !  Little  he  fancies  how  her  days  run 
by !  ... 

At  least,  there  has  been  no  news  since  that  last 
scene  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  either  of  him  or  Lance- 
lot. How  their  strange  teacher  has  fulfilled  his 
promise  of  guiding  their  education;  whether  they 
have  yet  reached  the  country  of  Prester  John; 
whether,  indeed,  that  Caucasian  Utopia  has  a  local 
and  bodily  existence,  or  was  only  used  by  Barnakill  to 
shadow  out  that  Ideal  which  is,  as  he  said  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  always  near  us,  underlying  the  Act- 
ual, as  the  spirit  does  its  body,  exhibiting  itself  step 
by  step  through  all  the  falsehoods  and  confusions  of 
history  and  society,  giving  life  to  all  in  it  which  is 
not  falsehood  and  decay ;  on  all  these  questions  I  can 
give  my  readers  no  sort  of  answer ;  perhaps  I  may  as 
yet  have  no  answer  to  give ;  perhaps  I  may  be  afraid 
of  giving  one ;  perhaps  the  times  themselves  are  giv- 
ing, at  once  cheerfully  and  sadly,  in  strange  destruc- 
tions and  strange  births,  a  better  answer  than  I  can 
give.  I  have  set  forth,  as  far  as  in  me  lay,  the  data 
of  my  problem  :  and  surely,  if  the  premises  be  given, 
wise  men  will  not  have  to  look  far  for  the  conclusion. 
In  homely  English  I  have  given  my  readers  Yeast; 
if  they  be  what  I  take  them  for,  they  will  be  able  to 
bake  with  it  themselves. 

And  yet  I  have  brought  Lancelot,  at  least — per- 


376  EPILOGUE. 

haps  Tregarva  too — to  a  conclusion,  and  an  all-im- 
portant one,  which  whoso  reads  may  find  fairly  printed 
in  these  pages.  Henceforth  his  life  must  begin  anew. 
Were  I  to  carry  on  the  thread  of  his  story  continuously 
he  would  still  seem  to  have  overleaped  as  vast  a  gulf 
as  if  I  had  re-introduced  him  as  a  grey-haired  man. 
Strange !  that  the  death  of  one  of  the  lovers  should 
seem  no  complete  termination  to  their  history,  when 
their  marriage  would  have  been  accepted  by  all  as  the 
legitimate  denouement,  beyond  which  no  information 
was  to  be  expected.  As  if  the  history  of  love  always 
ended  at  the  altar !  Oftener  it  only  begins  there ; 
and  all  before  it  is  but  a  mere  longing  to  love.  Why 
should  readers  complain  of  being  refused  the  future 
history  of  one  life,  when  they  are  in  most  novels  cut 
short  by  the  marriage  finale  from  the  biography  of 
two? 

But  if,  over  and  above  this,  any  reader  should  1x3 
wroth  at  my  having  left  Lancelot's  history  unfinished 
on  questions  in  his  opinion  more  important  than  that 
of  love,  let  me  entreat  him  to  set  manfully  about 
finishing  his  own  history — a  far  more  important  one 
to  him  than  Lancelot's.  If  he  shall  complain  that 
doubts  are  raised  for  which  no  solution  is  given,  that 
my  hero  is  brought  into  contradictory  beliefs  without 
present  means  of  bringing  them  to  accord,  into  passive 
acquiescence  in  vast  truths  without  seeing  any  possi- 
bility of  practically  applying  them — let  him  coi i >!«!<•  r 
well  whether  such  be  not  his  own  case ;  let  him,  if  he 
be  as  most  are,  thank  God  when  ho  finds  out  that  such 


EPILOGUE.  377 

is  his  case,  when  he  knows  at  last  that  those  are  most 
blind  who  say  they  see,  when  he  becomes  at  last  con- 
scious how  little  he  believes,  how  little  he  acts  up  to 
that  small  belief.  Let  him  try  to  right  somewhat  of 
the  doubt,  confusion,  custom -worship,  inconsistency, 
idolatry,  within  him — some  of  the  greed,  bigotry,  reck- 
lessness, respectably  superstitious  atheism  around  him  ; 
and  perhaps  before  his  new  task  is  finished,  Lancelot 
and  Tregarva  may  have  returned  with  a  message,  if 
not  for  him — for  that  depends  upon  him  having  ears 
to  hear  it — yet  possibly  for  strong  Lord  Minchamp- 
stead,  probably  for  good  Lord  Vieuxbois,  and  surely 
for  the  sinners  and  the  slaves  of  AVhitford  Priors. 
What  it  will  be,  I  know  not  altogether;  but  this  I 
know,  that  if  my  heroes  go  on  as  they  have  set  forth, 
looking  with  single  mind  for  some  one  ground  of 
human  light  and  love,  some  everlasting  rock  whereon 
to  build,  utterly  careless  what  the  building  may  be, 
howsoever  contrary  to  precedent  and  prejudice,  and 
the  idols  of  the  day,  provided  God,  and  nature,  and 
the  accumulated  lessons  of  all  the  ages,  help  them  in  its 
construction  —  then  they  will  find  in  time  the  thing 
they  seek,  and  see  how  the  will  of  God  may  at  last  be 
done  on  earth,  even  as  it  is  done  in  heaven.  But,  alas  ! 
between  them  and  it  are  waste  raging  waters,  foul 
mud  banks,  thick  with  dragons  and  sirens ;  and  many 
a  bitter  day  and  blinding  night,  in  cold  and  hunger, 
spiritual  and  perhaps  physical,  await  them.  For  it 
was  a  true  vision  which  John  Bunyan  saw,  and  one 
which,  as  the  visions  of  wise  men  are  wont  to  do, 
2c  T. 


378  KI'ILOGUE. 

meant  far  more  than  the  seer  fancied,  when  he  beheld 
in  his  dream  that  there  was  indeed  a  land  of  Beulah, 
and  Arcadian  Shepherd  Paradise,  on  whose  mountain 
tops  the  everlasting  sunshine  lay ;  but  that  the  way 
to  it,  as  these  last  three  years  are  preaching  to  us, 
went  past  the  mouth  of  Hell,  and  through  the  valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 


TIIF. 


Printtdby  R.  &  R   CI.ARK, 


AT 


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